


Sherlock Holmes: The Adventures of the Basement Neighbor

by MostPoeticDream



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostPoeticDream/pseuds/MostPoeticDream
Summary: Evelyn Bennett is adjusting to life after tragedy and attempting to settle down in a still slightly musty 221C Baker Street. She's quickly roped into unexpected escapades including but not limited to: imaginary snakes, mysterious deaths, explosives, and Sherlock Holmes.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Beginnings

I rested my forehead against the coolness of the car window as I watched the familiar London rain collect on the Baker Street sidewalks. I had lost track of time as I sat in the worn driver's seat, but I knew there were sizable puddles that had somehow formed in the few or possibly many minutes that I'd been seated there. I also knew that the man standing in front of Speedy's Café was avoiding his wife while he pretended to make a phone call, only muttering and nodding when she rapped sharply on the window behind him. I faintly smiled when he scratched the top of his wool cap and said goodbye to a blank cell phone screen, walking dejectedly inside.

I'd always been more inclined to notice the details that no one else seemed to (or cared to). Even as a young girl I would find myself focusing and fixating on the obscure and the extraneous. My father found it humorous when I would walk away from a film having paid more notice to discrepancies in the amount of milk in a glass or bites out of a piece of toast than I did to major plot points. I felt something gently brush my side, pulling me out of the saga of the Speedy's stranger that I had been mentally establishing. I mindlessly reached down to pet the smoky grey cat as I murmured, "What do you think? Time to go inside?"

Normally I don't mind change; rather, I embrace it and compartmentalise when necessary. Though, as I stared out into the rain at my new flat with nothing but some boxes of family heirlooms, clothing, and kitchen utensils in my backseat, I couldn't help but feel as though my life were in a state of complete upheaval. When my mother had passed away months before I allowed myself to cry, reflected fondly on the past, then quickly repressed emotions and tried my best to move forward with my chin held high. When my father then sold our home and many of our more unnecessary belongings to move to France, I bought him an espresso maker and helped him pack. When it came to be my turn to embrace a new life trajectory, I finally succumbed to the feeling that I was in a state of absolute and irreversible change, for better or for worse. My move to a new flat was the beginning of a new chapter in my life, and it provided closure to the twenty-seven years leading up to it.

I fished a crumpled envelope out of my glove compartment and shook its few contents onto my lap; a silver key and a note tidily scrawled in purple ink:

_Key is for the front door_

_You may want to leave the door open for ventilation_

_I did try my best to get rid of the mold smell._

_\- Martha Hudson_

Having known Mrs. Hudson for a number of years, I did not doubt that she had spent a fair amount of time wandering around the basement flat, perhaps spraying various perfumed cleaners on the walls and ceiling, muttering about the uselessness of professionals. Mold and all, I was thankful for the flat.

I cradled my compliant feline companion and made my way into the unremitting drizzle, instantly comforted by the warm air that greeted me when I pushed open the heavy front door. The building smelled of woodsmoke, coffee, and cedar, which instantly melted away my few hesitations. I had never actually visited the flat, as when Mrs. Hudson mentioned the inexpensive basement vacancy at my father's going away dinner party I was quick to accept the offer. I'm typically not one to make decisions quickly or carelessly, but in that moment the thought of doing something rather reckless and spontaneous had greatly appealed to me.

"221C." I muttered to myself, "Right, just past the staircase."

I glanced up the wooden stairs that lead to 221B as my mind wandered to my new neighbours. I had heard Mrs. Hudson speak of the two men when she would visit my parents' old home to play cards and Cluedo. Though her words were affectionate, there was always a hint of exasperation that was invariably loving and familial. On one occasion she had insisted that I read John Watson's blog, stating from behind her glass of wine, "John writes occasionally, bless him. Sometimes he's so desperate for content the poor dear even writes about me."

I had skimmed a few entries, admittedly reluctantly, and was surprisedly sucked into reading about the various cases he pursued. I was also intrigued by the "madman" partner and roommate he wrote about, though I think all of those in London that bothered to carefully read the news were as well.

"Ah, here we are then." I quietly said as I stepped through the door to 221C, watching the cat lazily jump onto the creaky hardwood floor. The living area smelled strongly of lavender, which I assumed was the scent of whatever Mrs. Hudson had used in her attempted mildew eradication. I surveyed my rather derelict surroundings, inwardly thanking the landlady for providing the space with necessary and bulky pieces of furniture. I knew that once I arranged my belongings, threw some logs into the fireplace, and smoothed on a fresh layer of wallpaper that it had the potential to be agreeable and cosy. I couldn't help but find its shabbiness to be charming.

I trusted my cat as I left the door open on my way to retrieve his food and boxes of my possessions. At this point I'd had the old boy for eleven years; since I'd found him as a kitten wandering the streets of South Kensington on a chilled December evening. I had chased him determinedly for hours, surrounded by Londoners and tourists doing their last minute Christmas shopping and unwilling to help a teenage girl run after a small stray.

I dashed to the car and gathered one of the large cardboard boxes containing things I'd kept from my parents' home but objectively didn't need; a patterned lampshade with a fringe of string tassels, a gold frame housing David Bowie's written response to my mother's fan letter, and my father's stained copy of Julia Child's cookbook to name a few articles.

"I won't need the book in France," Dad claimed while pushing his round, tortoiseshell spectacles up the bridge of his nose, "because I'd like to think I will be living the recipes as opposed to reading them."

I continued to jog back and forth from building to car, successfully transporting nearly everything inside in a matter of minutes. The drizzle didn't cease, but I appreciated that it prodded me to be more efficient. As I walked briskly to the front door clutching my last box, I heard someone shout my name and turned to see none other than a waving Mrs. Hudson with a plasticine rain bonnet tied around her head.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said, more so to myself, grinning and squinting because of the soggy weather. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Inside, inside." she urged as she nudged me towards the front step. "We don't have to catch up in this miserable weather. Did you just get in?"

"Moments ago," I nodded appreciatively as she held the door open for me, "I've just finished unloading my things, though that wasn't anything too strenuous."

"I was hoping I'd be here to see you in, dear. I just had to pop down to the corner store to pick up some tea as I'm afraid the boys had cleaned out the stash." I noticed a few dark bottles in her bag when I glanced down, noting that there was another stash of hers that had also needed replenishing.

"Have the boys made their presences known yet?" She questioned. "I imagine they haven't. They can be so reclusive until they want a cup of warm drink..." I heard her mutter to herself as she carried her groceries towards her door.

I'd always appreciated conversations with Mrs. Hudson as she often seems to answer her own questions without seeking a lengthy response.

"Do you want a cup of morning tea?" She questioned from the hall. "I'll make you tea as long as you live here, but only if you join me in drinking it. I can be your company but not your housekeeper."

"That would be grand, Mrs. Hudson." I punctuated my response with a heavy thud as I ungracefully dropped my sentimental junk next to the sofa on my living room floor. After a rain drenched early morning of both thinking and driving in circles I could think of no better or more soothing tonic.

"Change out of those wet clothes in the meantime, dear. I'll holler when it's nearly ready." She waved as she made her way into 221B.

I smiled inwardly at the exchange as I dug through a bundle of my clothing, unearthing a knit jumper and black jeans. I held the cable knit material to my face and inhaled deeply, glad that I gave into the sporadic urge when the comforting scent of home met my senses. It was a nostalgic mix of cinnamon and the forest of herbs that we had grown in our kitchen. I'm sure there are those that found it pathetic that a woman well into her twenties had still been living with her parents, but I had been content with the arrangement and not entirely keen on braving the London housing market alone if I had no need to. My parents had for decades owned this house that was, quite frankly, too large. Without trying I could have spent days going about my business at home without making contact with mum or dad because of the layout. Smaller spaces had always made me feel more comfortable. I thought of our old forest of kitchen herbs now strewn in a sad heap in a sludgy garden that no longer belonged to us and closed my eyes; no more thoughts of decay. No more.

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror after changing and giving myself a quick and informal tour of the flat, hesitantly surveying my reflection for the first time in what had felt like ages. My tired hazel eyes no longer looked red or irritated, and hadn't in awhile, though the dark circles underneath them remained noticeable. They always were. I ran a hand through the ashy dark brown waves that echoed my mother's; curls that had become more pronounced after prolonged exposure to the rain. I was often told that I was a perfect clone of my mother, which was a remark that I considered to be a great compliment, but one that I inwardly declined and could never fully accept. With her large and inquisitive eyes, gorgeous cheekbones, sloping nose, and dark brows, she had been a classic beauty. When I looked at my reflection I didn't see any of the compassion or warmth that her features had so effortlessly possessed, which was what had made her beautiful.

An effectively loud and simple call of "Tea!" pulled me away from the mirror before I could further attack my self esteem.

I pulled on my old leather boots and shuffled across the hall, following the aroma that was wafting out of the oven upstairs.

"That smells wonderful, whatever it is." I sighed and stretched as I wandered into the flat.

"Scones. I also have some store bought biscuits on hand if these turn out anything like my last attempt." She said while worriedly opening the oven door.

"Even if they came out tasting like rocks the smell would be well worth-" My comment was cut short by the slamming of a nearby door and the sound of two voices engaged in a seemingly heated conversation.

"Don't be daft, John." I heard a deep voice declare as it mixed with the sound of feet ascending creaky stairs. "Few _humans_ can be commanded to play such a role in someone else's dark bidding, let alone something as vacuous and impassive as a snake. A caged snake, no less."

"You're calling me daft, now? I'm not the one ignoring the only concrete piece of evidence we've obtained. A snake is a snake, regardless of its upbringing!"

"And I suppose a snake charmer is a snake charmer, regardless of whether or not he communicates with a toodley thing? What astonishing legitimacy."

"It appears as though The Man That Sees Everything is really just an imperceptive bast-"

"Tea, Mrs. Hudson!" The deep voice thundered from an even closer range, "We will have that tea!"

"Just a moment, love." Mrs. Hudson replied without removing her gaze from the oven.

I stared with wide and curious eyes as the duo charged into the kitchen. The two were led by the man I immediately recognised to be Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying his commanding presence, especially when he questioned, "Who is this?" with a long finger pointed overtly in my direction.

"Evelyn Bennett." I offered with slightly raised brows. "Just moved in down the stairs, actually."

"Hello." I was able to put the second voice to a face as John Watson gently pushed past from behind Sherlock, smiling widely with a hand extended in my direction. "John Watson. New upstairs neighbour." I smiled politely while he maintained a firm grip on my hand. "Apologies for the, er - spirited conversation."

"Hello," I half chuckled. "I _have_ read a few of your blog entries at Mrs. Hudson's urging. Mysterious deaths, Chinese antiquities, snakes, apparently. It would be daft for one to assume that a case could be solved without its fair share of turbulence... Especially with the snakes." I smiled whilst running a hand through my hair.

" _E_ _specially_ turbulent when snakes very obviously haven't been involved." Sherlock offered blankly with a hand curled nonchalantly around his chin and without a glance in John's direction.

"Tea ready then?" John said through a forced, toothy grin and with a clap of his hands. Mrs. Hudson didn't move from the oven door she was kneeling in front of.

"How do you take yours, Evelyn?" John asked while aggressively grabbing an extra teacup from the cupboard to add to the two that seemed to have their designated place next to the sink.

I grabbed and shook the carton of cream on the counter and smiled in appreciation as John poured me a cup and I took my seat in a random armchair in the dimly lit living room.

Mrs. Hudson assembled her scones, perfectly baked of course, on a plate and we all settled into our respective chairs (aside from Sherlock, who chose to lean against the fireplace and tower over my seat). Mrs. Hudson then mentioned something about a forgotten appointment and hurried off into the rain with a scone.

"What do you do for work then?" John inquired through a bite of berry scone and a moment of quiet following the slamming of the front door.

I looked at my hands which were cradling my warm cup, secretly working up a few moments of courage. Though it had been a handful of months since the incident, it wasn't the easiest to talk about. Grief doesn't have any sort of rigid timeline and I didn't enjoy being the pariah in whatever company I surrounded myself with. The one everyone had to walk on eggshells around. The poor, bereaved girl. No stranger to tragedy. In my current company, however, I felt comfort. I didn't feel as though I would be viewed as unrelatable or fragile. I was in the company of men that chased death and discomfort and snakes (though that was currently up for debate).

"I worked at the British Museum." At the mention of it Sherlock finally made proper eye contact with me. I kept a straight face, feigning normalcy. Trying not to immediately let on that my mum was one of the handful that died in a national tragedy at my old place of work. _Our_ old place of work.

"It's been months since I've worked. I'm trying to navigate going back. It's obviously a bit grim; the thought of spending my days walking around these protected, priceless items after what happened. It all feels shallow, meaningless, if that makes any sort of sense." I shook my head as I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.

"You were there when it happened?" Sherlock asked, his eyes not leaving my face, though I didn't squirm. I felt reassured, and nodded while maintaining eye contact.

"I had been in the Great Court, beginning my first guided tour of the day when everything just, shuttered. It was the loudest sound I've ever heard but also the greatest stillness I've ever felt - like there was an electric charge in the air." My fingers twitched at the memory. It felt bizarre, ten minutes into meeting these two and I was already sharing such an intense memory. I supposed that's just what these two attracted. Walking magnets for those that have experienced the strange and unusual and disturbing. I looked back down at my milky tea as I remembered my hair standing on end. The sensation of every muscle tensing. Grabbing the random, wild eyed children next to me out of instinct as I whipped my head towards the screams that were now beginning to echo from the high ceilinged rooms to my left.

"I always thought that I'd be the type to run, to take flight if something were to go awry, but I ran towards the noise. Chaos, as you could imagine." Room 18. Greece. Parthenon exhibit. Mum's blazer. Mum's hair. Mum. The wreckage that a bomb leaves behind. I was nearly certain that Sherlock recognised the resemblance between myself and one of the victims, especially if he had studied the incident as much as I expected he would have; surely knowing the names of those that had died. There was of course a Bennett in that mix. Why he didn't choose to acknowledge it in that moment I haven't a clue. He just nodded knowingly, which when was this man ever 'unknowing' from what I'd gathered, and then took a sip of his tea. I was thankful.


	2. To Surrey

The line of candles I had going on the fireplace mantle cast a warm, dancing glow as I sat curled in the corner of my couch with my phone and my cat, who appeared as though he was leagues ahead of me in feeling adjusted to the new place. I stretched out my legs as I held my phone to my ear and waited.

"Yes? Hello, who's calling?"

"I see I still haven't been added to your contacts. Hi, Dad. How's the French life?" I grinned and lightly picked at a velvet throw pillow on the old couch that I was now the proud-ish owner of.

"You know that when left to my own devices I am mostly incapable of operating any of my devices." He chuckled at his own 'joke' and I smiled at the welcomed sound of his voice and laughter. I pictured the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Beautifully sunny here, just went for a country walk and made an omelette for supper. Lunch too. Trying to perfect them. How's the new home?" I couldn't help the reactionary twinge at the word 'home.' We'll get there, I thought to myself.

"It's… cosy. I have an abundance of blankets and pillows now, er - a desk! That's new. Proud of setting that one up myself." I had made a couple of intensive runs to the store that afternoon to pick up a number of creature comforts and necessities. "I had tea with my neighbours. The detectives, I guess."

"The detectives! That's right. At least I can trust that you're safe and sound in that flat of yours. I, on the other hand, have been leaving the windows open all day as there's some quality fresh air here, but I often forget to close them over night so I may be the one we need to worry about. Mice, intruders, spiders worst of all, you know me." Snakes, I thought, grinning to myself. "Marvelous creatures but they do send me running."

"Oh, Dad, I have to tell you! My neighbours were telling me about this case of theirs, the one they're working on cracking right now." I sat up straighter and clutched my pillow, feeling genuine excitement over recalling the briefing they had given me over our second cup of tea. Well, that John had given me. Sherlock had busied himself in the kitchen, mostly prodding at something in the fridge whilst offering the occasional scoff at John's attempt to summarize.

"So this woman was found in her bed, with no clear or obvious cause of, um…" I didn't have any issues acknowledging the concept of death, but saying the word around my dad still resonated as uncomfortable to me. "We don't know, but she was covered in red dots and an unidentified poison was found in her bloodstream along with two puncture wounds on her ankle; a possible bite mark. John, the doctor, thinks it was a snake, but he's been calling all of the zoos in London to see if they've lost any," I nearly laughed as I said this out loud, deciding I was leaning towards taking Sherlock's side on this one. "But they've all been accounted for. I guess there's a weird family dynamic as well, which is always entertaining, but there's apparently a bizarre brother in law or fiancé that keeps loads of snakes at home, though Julia, the speckled woman, hadn't set foot in his flat and he has an alibi. It's..." I took a deep breath while smiling, "all very fascinating." I heard a garbled rustling on the other line. "Dad?"

"Yes, darling, yes! Venomous snakes and women with dots, all very enchanting material. I've just dropped a tomato in the dirty dish water but it's salvageable. I suppose I'm the only one that will have to worry about eating it."

My father didn't sound sad while voicing this truth, but it was comments like this that sent a pang through my heart more than anything that was overtly tragic or sad. I closed my eyes at the thought of him sitting alone in the countryside. His wavy dark hair and kind brown eyes with a vest for every day of the week, eating omelettes at a table with nothing but empty chairs and a breeze through the open windows to keep him company. He had repeated that this move would be a dream for him and I encouraged it. This was a time for the two of us to encourage dreams. A through and through optimist he was, and I hoped with all of my might that that trait wouldn't abandon him. Not right now.

"Getting any writing done?" I inquired with a hand on my forehead, subconsciously there to put a stopper on racing thoughts. My father was a moderately successful writer, wildly successful as far as biographers were concerned.

"Here and there," He said tentatively. "I have a trip planned for Colmar, leaving the day after tomorrow. Cobblestone streets, a canal, and Medieval buildings. Chasing inspiration and whimsy, I suppose. That should be the place to find it."

"I hope you do." I responded with the utmost sincerity.

We sat in a few moments of reflective and comfortable silence before saying our goodbyes. I tossed my phone to the other end of the couch and suddenly felt very restless, getting up and turning on the kettle for some decaffeinated tea and to take out my contacts. I had just thrown on my gold wire rimmed glasses and poured myself a cup when I began to hear distant footsteps that verged on stomping. I thought about John and Sherlock, wondering what they could be getting up to. A break in the case? Did a zoo finally report a missing snake? Is John doing a jig out of pure smugness? I was casually pacing around my living room, holding my mug and waiting for my drink to steep when I heard a door slam, followed by more stomping and hushed, urgent voices that then ceased in front of my flat. The momentary silence was then pierced by a rapid set of knocks. I opened the door confidently as there was very clearly no mystery as to who was standing behind it.

"Hi?" I said with a questioning inflection, half smiling, instantly becoming very conscious of the fact that I was wearing an incredibly oversized t-shirt and now uncomfortably short shorts. I took an all too hot sip of tea and tried to hide my grimace.

"You own a car." Sherlock stated.

"For the record," John stated while sticking up an exclamatory pointer finger and pushing past Sherlock, "this was not my idea. Had absolutely nothing to do with this. Nope." He finished with a shake of his head and made a quick X with his forearms before they dropped back to his sides. I stared at John with an inquisitive brow for a few moments longer before returning my attention to Sherlock.

"I did in fact make the illogical decision to own a car in this city. Well spotted." I took another sip. Though, not entirely illogical as I found it therapeutic to drive and had lots of family scattered about Scotland, so I used visits to Nan and Grandad's as a means to justify it.

"You clearly had no other plans this evening," Sherlock said after giving me a quick up and down glance. I laughed (mostly in indignance) and tilted my head as he continued, "and we need to move past placing guilt on uninvolved reptiles. Julia Stoner was murdered. In the weeks leading up to her murder," Sherlock stated with a sideways glance at a tightlipped John, "she had constantly complained of feeling fatigued and ill. To gain insight into her last days, I'm going to recreate and relive Julia Stoner's final night in the exact environment that in some way -" Sherlock pushed past into my flat with his pointer fingers joined under his nose. I looked at John and shrugged, gesturing for him to enter my flat as well, "Some way contributed to her passing. And it's now, by no coincidence of course, that Helen Stoner-"

"Her sister." John stated. I nodded.

"Is complaining of feeling lethargic and drowsy."

"So you want a ride to the Stoners' house?" I gathered very quickly.

"Precisely."

"And you're spending the night?"

"Necessary."

"Where in England are we headed, exactly? If I agree, of course." I crossed my arms.

"Western Surrey." John offered, only making eye contact with the cat.

"Surrey…" I looked between the two of them. "All right. Let me just put on some proper trousers. Oh, and blow out those candles for me, would you? Thank you!" I loudly said as I was closing my bedroom door, making quick work of getting ready. I tucked a black sweater into some black high waisted jeans then swiftly looped an appropriately black belt around my waist. Leaving my glasses on and hair in it's slightly messy nighttime updo. I threw a toothbrush into a bag as I wasn't about to leave the boys there, only to have to make a second round trip to fetch them the next morning. I gave myself a quick look in the bathroom mirror and excitedly smiled. The thought of what we were about to do was exhilarating and I clung to the welcomed feelings of enthusiasm with all that I had in me.

I strolled back into the living room to see John sitting on one end of the couch engaged in a staring contest with my cat on the opposite end. Sherlock was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, reading the old letter from Bowie to my mum.

"What's his, uh- her? Name?" John asked.

"He doesn't have one, actually." I responded while grabbing some iced coffee from the fridge. Caffeine was now essential. "I guess I just didn't feel it was my place to give him one. Blame my angst filled, existential teenage self." I smiled. "Ready?"

We filtered out of my front door and I locked it behind us before we stepped out onto a gloomy Baker Street. It was still drizzly and now slightly foggy which felt like an ominous sendoff. With the momentum I had felt from moving and running errands all day I had also thankfully given my car a quick but thorough cleaning.

"Please tell me they know we're coming." I said, looking over my shoulder as we were now pulling onto the road and officially Surrey bound.

"We've been in contact with Helen." Sherlock said after… Snorting? Scoffing? Whatever it was, it was ultimately condescending.

"Well we are going to be showing up on their doorstep at nearly midnight and I am doing you a favor. Patronize me after you get the free ride." I said while glancing over at the dark haired detective. I focused on his profile as it was framed by droplets on the passenger side window lit by passing city lights and neon signs. He returned my gaze for a few moments and I smiled with raised brows to show that my comments were mostly lighthearted. One couldn't deny that he was striking in appearance.

"She's going to give us a tour of their manor and take us through her sister's daily routine where I can then pinpoint the culprit. It will be a tangible item still within the home, obviously as the sister is now somehow feeling its effects. It has to be something inconspicuous that could have been easily placed inside as there's too high a risk otherwise with the amount of adults in the home that were paranoid even before one of them died. If someone was intent on murder and had a straightforward means to do it they would have just done it the old fashioned way; but they didn't. They couldn't." Sherlock finished as he grabbed the lever on his seat and rolled it all the way back, stopping when John's knees were pressed into the back.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John responded as he put both hands on the back of the seat. "Pull the lever again!"

"So the odds are, whatever item is behind this was placed there by someone who wouldn't have raised suspicion by entering the home?" I asked while John and Sherlock continued to toy with the seat.

"See then? Still could've been a fiancé's snake." John bitterly offered. Sherlock pushed his seat all the way back again, smirking.

I took a swig of coffee as their bickering continued, letting my eyes drift over the ever familiar streets of a very soggy London.


	3. The Manor-house

Traffic dwindled as we continued westward and out of the eternal hustle and bustle that was London, winding over bridges and through smaller cities where I was now able to focus less on the roads and more on the case at hand and my current company.

"So are you originally from London?" John leaned forward and asked as we drove past a field of sheep.

"Obviously." Sherlock offered, unmoving as he continued to sit with his arms crossed and head against the window. Funny, I noted, that on paper this would sound like a position of rest for most, but he looked perpetually rigid and far from a state of ease.

"Okay," I laughed, "go on. What makes you so sure?"

"The accent is the first giveaway. Relatively pure. Distinguishable. No obvious or even slight trace of a dialect from a different hometown or county leftover from adolescent years. The car could have thrown me for a loop; car owners in London typically have just kept them after a move to the city or end up making the purchase out of previously held expectations because they grew up outside of London and were for years dependent on themselves and car travel for transportation. You are neither. You possess a natural confidence behind the wheel and the assertiveness of a practiced city driver, not to mention you have yet to enter anything into the map on your phone. You have no obvious financial struggles, which one could be dubious about, taking into account your move into a moldy basement flat, but this car, which you would have quickly and easily sold if you were pressed for money, says otherwise. One in need of some change wouldn't still have even a napkin coughed on by David Bowie in their possession, let alone an autographed and personalized letter. It's obvious from what I could see of the quality of the framed artwork you had leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung up for display, that you come from a wealthy family. Certain positions at the British Museum could afford you a comfortable lifestyle, but I doubt to such an extent at your age and assumed position within the museum hierarchy. Do I believe you had a spoon-fed upbringing and view your move to a dingy flat as cute and different? No. One that was spoiled would have this car but not have the confidence and knowhow you possess when it comes to driving it. You are just a woman throwing herself into, what would you call it? A 'period of self discovery' after, perhaps, the collapse of a long term relationship with the preppy blazer wearing son of an established museum donor? Seeking change and desperate to excuse yourself from one more gallery opening and champagne flute by throwing yourself into this low rent lifestyle to feel as though you are making your own way in the world without outside assistance or influence?"

My eyes were glued on the road as Sherlock made his observations. Actually, I wasn't even sure if I had blinked since he opened his mouth. He said nothing that was insulting by nature, but the tone of his voice and the assertiveness that seemed to trickle over every word made me feel as though I had been slightly attacked.

"Born and raised in London." I finally said, looking back at John. "Hampstead. My family has always been quite… comfortable, yes, but I'm not a materialistic person or driven by money, clearly. We inherited a great deal from my grandparents, but my father has made a name for himself as a writer and my mother was a director at the British Museum." I shifted slightly, now unsure that Sherlock had made the connection. "She died."

"I- I'm so sorry." John said (twice), instantly understanding the context of her passing and putting his hand on the side of the seat. "I'm sure you're tired of hearing that, so, sorry. And I've just said it again, but-"

"Thank you." I smiled, cutting him off to ease the awkwardness I now seemed to spend my life trying to avoid. "I appreciate it. Also, to your credit, I have dated a blazer wearing son of a museum donor. Two, actually. Both were named Archie if that doesn't paint a picture." I smiled at Sherlock who was looking at me in silence. "That was thankfully in my teens and early twenties. Not quite my type, I've discovered."

I had a couple of serious relationships under my belt, the most recent one having ended about a year prior. Even though things very clearly hadn't worked out, I looked back on that time with warmth and fondness and gratitude, and still chatted with a few old boyfriends from time to time. Not so much the Archies, but I didn't count those as serious.

We engaged in lighter small talk and I refreshed myself on details about the case to get my bearings as we edged closer to Surrey, rolling past brick houses, farms and fields until we finally pulled in front of the manor house where Julia Stoner had lived and passed away. It was inhabited by her sister, Helen, and their stepfather, Dr. Grimesby Roylott who was a celebrity of sorts within the cosmetics industry. Our car wheels had no sooner crunched over the driveway when a one miss Helen Stoner turned on the entryway light and waved as she opened the door. The hour was getting rather late, but Helen seemed peppy despite her rumoured fatigue.

"I'm so glad you've made it!" She called, walking mostly on her toes over the dirty ground in rather posh house slippers as she continued to wave while walking towards the car. Her hair was still perfectly curled from the day.

"Thank you for allowing us to come over and scope everything out on such short notice." John smiled and said as he shook her hand.

"Anything you need."

"At this stage of the game it's of the utmost importance that we gain this kind of personal insight into the fatal catalyst of your sister's final days." Sherlock walked briskly past Helen towards the front door. "You're still feeling ill?" He asked, pivoting around to face us.

"Yeah, been feeling tired for awhile now. I almost always feel as though I've had a glass of wine or two, it's bizarre." She said, clutching a cashmere shawl around her shoulders and the heavier cardigan she already had on underneath. "I've been sleeping in until early afternoon and when I wake it's still as though I never caught a wink of sleep... And this is new." She finished, holding out her hand to display the shakes she was experiencing.

"Very well. Then we'll also need a tour of your room." Sherlock said quickly with a pointer finger in the air, pivoting back around and through the open front door. If the man were a vampire he would be miserable.

"Evelyn Bennett, lovely to meet you." I said as I shook Helen's hand and smiled as warmly as I could. I immediately internally questioned whether or not I should have engaged in a handshake, though I was nearly certain that whatever was causing her fatigue wasn't contagious, and John was a doctor so I felt confident in following his lead. "Their neighbour and designated driver, apparently. They've filled me in on all of the recent happenings in your life and, though I'm rather new to all of this, I just want to assure you that you're in good hands."

She grabbed both of my arms and offered me a light smile, her eyes surrounded by smokey makeup crinkled in… desperation? Emotional, mental, physical exhaustion? "Thank you, hun."

Helen and I made our way inside the home. My eyes were immediately drawn up the portrait and sconce filled walls toward the incredibly high ceiling that was lined with dark beams and adorned with an elaborate light fixture. I let my gaze fall and made eye contact with an austere looking oil painting of a middle aged blond gentleman. I looked down at the large, maroon patterned rug I was standing on, a barrier between my shoes and the richly dark hardwood floor that was charmingly uneven due to the home's old age. I was shaken from my visual exploration when Helen loudly closed and locked the heavy wooden door behind her, accompanied with a beep from their assumedly heavy-duty security system.

"Should I take my shoes off?" I inquired, noticing an absence of them by the door but not wanting to take any missteps in their home. Literally.

"No, no. We have cleaners." She offered with a wave, sauntering over to join John and Sherlock who were already in the sitting room.

"All right then." I mouthed to myself.

"Lovely place you've got here." John observed with his hands on his sides as Sherlock had his head inside the grand fireplace, peering up the chimney.

"It is, isn't it. It's belonged to my step-father's family for generations."

"Is he in?" Sherlock asked, his voice echoing from inside the fireplace.

"Yes, somewhere, though he does normally retire to bed around nine or ten. Beauty sleep and all that."

"All right, let's see your room." Sherlock said briskly, brushing his hands together after ducking out of the fireplace.

"Do- do you want a tour of the house?"

"I suppose if you feel so inclined, though there's nothing here I particularly need to see. Your couch cushions look as though they've been occupied once within the last month."

"Well a tour would be useful, wouldn't it?" John said, trying and failing to hide his annoyance that stemmed from Sherlock's apparent flippancy. "I mean we drove all this way and we're here."

"Aside from your rooms, where did you and Julia you spend the majority of your time?" I asserted.

"We have a less formal sitting room, I would say we both spent a few hours there every evening if we hadn't gone out. We both enjoyed baking so the kitchen saw its fair share of use. We also have a study, though she used that more than I do."

I tilted my head in thought, realizing that a few hours spent in an odd room here and there wouldn't be enough to poison its occupants that weren't there consistently in the first place. If one had been targeting both sisters they obviously would have a clear answer as to where they needed to place the objects that would eventually prove fatal.

"Has your stepfather complained of feeling poorly? Even just slight fatigue?" John wondered.

Helen flipped her stiff, product filled hair behind her shoulder in thought as she clicked her tongue once. "Not really. Right after Julia passed away, but I think he was just sad. Like, he was really upset, obviously. I don't see him that much now, he's usually in his study or sleeping or at meetings. He'll walk the grounds sometimes."

Why would one target the daughters of a loaded cosmetics big shot without a threat or demand, and then not target the person that lay claim to that huge fortune? If this weren't a money driven crime, who could these poor women have mutually enraged? I caught Sherlock's eye and we exchanged slightly confused glances.

We followed Helen and made our way down a dark, narrow, high ceilinged hallway filled with doors. This would have been my childhood dream; endless doors, "secret" passageways used by maids and butlers, endless amounts of nooks and crannies to be explored. Forget childhood, this would thrill me at any age.

"Here's the kitchen." Helen said, opening a door to a room with incredible wooden built ins, endless counter space, copper pots and pans hanging in abundance under impressive windows.

"Have you done much baking recently?" I asked, recalling my lack of enthusiasm towards typically mundane undertakings such as cooking for myself in the weeks following the bombing.

"No. I don't bake, I just can't seem to stop eating." She said sheepishly though I gave her a reassuring nod.

I took one more look around as Sherlock tended to a large vase of flowers near the window, carefully rubbing his fingers over petals and sniffing whatever remained on his fingers after. His eyes showed no glimmer of excitement so I knew there was nothing of note in the colourful flora.

John was busying himself in the fridge which was surprisingly barren of ingredients.

"Is there anything in here that you eat everyday? Milk with your cereal, that raspberry jam on your toast, a morning coffee, perhaps?" John asked while peering into the bag of grounds next to the fridge.

"Usually I just eat out or get take away. I've been going out for coffee every afternoon just to get out of this house." I could sense the fear behind her eyes. Just to be stuck in the huge, empty manor where your sister suspiciously died; a place so familiar to you but now so strange and uncanny.

"Let's go to your room?" I offered. She responded with a series of small rapid nods, as though she was agreeing but also clearing her mind of its previous thoughts.

We made our way down the same door filled hallway, the temptation to turn every knob and give a peek at what lay on the other side was very strong. We walked past the formal sitting room and turned up a set of sturdy and wooden stairs, though they still creaked ominously underneath our foot falls. We stopped in front of the first door on the right.

"This is mine." She opened the door to an expansive but cosy room. Her clothing and makeup style tended towards glamorous so I was surprised by the lack of "glam" in her room. It had elements of luxury of course, like a beautiful claw foot tub that I could see through the opened door of the room's connected bathroom. Helen also had a canopy bed draped with dark sheets that folded and caught the dim light in a way that made them look like a painting. I didn't see clothing or a substantial dresser so I assumed we were standing not too far from a gaudy walk in closet, or perhaps a designated closet room as a teenage friend of mine had had.

"Could you walk us through the parts of the day that you spend in here?" John asked.

"Yeah, er, I wake up, and properly get out of bed around eleven or noon these days." We all walked over to the bed where she pulled back some of the drapery and patted her pillows that looked as though they'd feel like clouds. "Then I'll turn on the telly to wake myself up more. Then… I always do my makeup. Here." We walked over to a vanity that was filled with every product imaginable. Sherlock opened drawers that were also filled with trays upon trays of products. If my stepfather were a big wig in the cosmetics industry I know I'd be swimming in makeup and creams and toiletries as well.

"Tell me what you use everyday." Sherlock demanded.

"It changes everyday, really. Depending on where I'm going, who I'm seeing."

"You mentioned going out for coffee every afternoon. Pretend you're getting ready for coffee." Sherlock resisted (but mostly failed) the impulse to roll his eyes.

"I would probably start with this." She blindly reached behind rows of tubes and bottles and of course pulled out exactly what she was looking for. "Moisturizer. Eye cream. This sunscreen. Moisturizer with sunscreen. Concealer, here, foundation…" She deftly pulled out every product mentioned, handing them to John and Sherlock who quickly had near armfuls of product.

"You use these with consistency?" John prodded.

"Hm, I mean, like I said it changes. I like to switch out products so my skin doesn't get used to them. Some people think it's important to let your skin get used to certain products, but I think switching up your daily routine makes all products more effective."

"Your sister, was she into beauty products as well?" I asked.

"Not as much as I am. She didn't wear makeup everyday, but obviously we get so many free products and she'd use most of them."

"All right. Bathroom." Sherlock quickly said. Dropping his share of products into John's arms.

"Does… does he have to use it? Or-" Helen asked with a confused glance in my direction. I snorted.

I followed him, hearing John muttering under his breath after a few products fell on the floor, and stood next to the claw foot tub. My jaw dropped. Once inside, the bathroom was nearly as big as her bedroom. Why one would need this much space to relieve and clean themselves, unless space was needed for a whole football team to assist, I will never know. We were of course greeted again with an abundance of products lining the sink(s), on the table next to the tub, filling the porcelain racks on the wall, inhabiting an apparent gold wire bar cart.

Sherlock put both pointer fingers to his lips and spun around slowing, taking a visual sweep of the room. "Take us to Julia's room."

I looked at him with a slightly furrowed brow. "That's it?"

"Julia is the deceased and our main focus. Our greatest asset in discovering the culprit and their preferred tool is in her room. We will find 'it' in there, and then we will find it in here."

I nodded.

"Follow me then. Her room is at the end of the hallway."

I slightly braced myself, feeling more uncomfortable about entering her room than I felt about hearing the details of her death. Death is a part of life and that's the one thing we all have in common, but... life. The details of it. Being surrounded by what made up a great deal of someone's existence; their books, their bobby pins on the bedside table, the toothbrush next to the sink, the pictures and artwork they chose to hang on the wall and admired everyday. It was eery.

"I haven't really gone in here since. I… don't really want to. A bit sad, you know?" Helen said, opening the door for us but averting her eyes.

"We understand." John said.

We thanked her for her hospitality and for showing us around when she bid us "goodnight" and closed the door.

Julia's room felt more lived in than her sister's. The room was filled with personal touches, little trophies from horse riding days in a display cabinet, pictures of her and her fiancé, a clarinet on a stand in the corner. She had the same vanity as Helen, but it was filled with less products and more character. I sighed quietly as I stood in front of a framed portrait on the wall. I felt a presence to my left and looked over to see John, searching my face to make sure that I was all right. I half smiled.

"Hanging in there?" He asked.

"I think so. This -" I gestured to the room. "This is the worst part so far, but I'm okay. Ready to find out who's behind all of this."

"You're not alone. If at any point tonight, or whenever, you feel as though you need someone to talk to, I'm here." He said earnestly. "If you feel comfortable, I know I'm just an acquaintance at this point, but we've made it our business to listen. I mean, I have. I listen." John half smiled with a glance towards the bathroom where Sherlock was sitting on the floor.

"Thanks, John."

I joined Sherlock in the bathroom. He was standing, staring at himself in the mirror with his hands on either side of the sink. I joined him in standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection as well.

"It has to be something in here." Sherlock said, returning my gaze.

"So you take everything to Bart's and test it if you have to."

He turned around and kneeled in front of the tub, gazing over every product lining its side. He seemed particularly drawn to a nearly empty bottle of mint green bubble bath liquid, picking it up and turning it over delicately in his hands. The bathroom lights were warm toned and dim so he whipped out his phone and turned on the flashlight, holding it close to the sides of the tub.

"Green residue." He said confidently, setting the bottle on the floor. "This was in Helen's bathroom as well, though pink and not nearly as empty. However, with her tendency to switch product routines it would take her much longer to experience the fatal end result of whatever it was she was so unlucky to be using."

I stepped closer, intimidated by what this green liquid could potentially be capable of. John stuck his head through the door.

"Same after sun lotion as Helen." He stuck his hand in and shook a bottle.

"Yes, same brand of toothpaste, same cleanser, same glass cleaner on the window sill…" Sherlock replied, pointing around the room and sounding slightly exasperated. "How often do you think Helen has been using her after sun lotion this month with all of the rain we've had. Not enough to inspire the shakes, surely."

"Then toothpaste, bubble bath…" I walked over to the vanity that John had been perusing. "This moisturizer looks much loved." I offered, holding a luxuriously packaged bottle that was nearly empty, the gold and baby blue label appearing faded in places.

John squinted. "I definitely don't remember seeing that in Helen's room."

"The killer could have used the same poison in any toiletry, so perhaps the guilty products could differ between the two women. I don't particularly think this is the occasion for brand loyalty." I replied and noticed Sherlock grin. "Though I'm unfortunately not well versed in poisons, my gut tells me a more liquid product would be a better means to deliver whatever it is they were trying to… deliver. I know I'd be more inclined to mix it in with that bubble bath as opposed to smushing it around in a toothpaste tube."

"Obviously best to bring a handful of items back to Bart's as opposed to one. No harm in that." John shrugged.

"'Best'? Only bringing one item back would mean that we had confidence." Sherlock said plainly.

"Is that it then? Are we heading back?" I asked.

"No. We all need to stay overnight. As much as I'm confident the answer lies in one of those bottles, I can't claim that with one hundred percent certainty. I need to experience other variables. The sheets, the air pumping through these vents, the obviously frequently used perfume next to the mirror, these candles that she almost managed to burn down all the way. We need the full picture."

"Hm, so if one of us starts to feel poorly then we'll know we're on to something?" John offered with an eye roll.

Sherlock picked up the perfume bottle and gave John a spritz. "That would be helpful."


	4. A Midnight Visitor

"Nope, nope, nope. I'm sleeping on the floor. End of story." John insisted, looking under the bed and pulling open drawers until he found an extra blanket in a wooden trunk. He threw it on the floor at the far end of the room under the windows and grabbed a decorative pillow off of the bed, stubbornly lying down, although I knew he probably wouldn't be sleeping anytime soon.

I hadn't really given the sleeping situation much thought until we were presented with it. I was tired and had no qualms when it came to sharing the bed with either of them. It was a king bed and, quite frankly, I didn't much feel like walking down the hall to wake a fatigued and sleep deprived Helen to inquire about different arrangements. If John refused to share a bed with Sherlock then so be it.

"Well, I have no issues." I said, lying down, crossing my feet and laying claim to the right side of the large and very inviting bed.

"Hold on, before you get too comfortable…" Sherlock trailed off whilst walking towards the dresser. He opened a few drawers before stumbling across what he was apparently looking for. He pulled out a floral night dress and tossed it to me.

"Now I draw the line." I half laughed incredulously. "You want me to wear this poor woman's night dress?"

"It's just a piece of cloth. It's not like she died in it."

"If it's just a piece of cloth then you wear it."

"That's your solution? Really? Me in a size small dress?"

I looked down at the fabric. Feeling uneasy at the thought of Julia Stoner wearing these pyjamas in this very bed (well, the bed had been replaced after she died in it, but still) after brushing her teeth and taking a relaxing bubble bath just a few meters away… But he was right. Something could have been in the detergent or fabric softener, the list went on in my head. It would, of course, be on the off chance, but the word "chance" is hopeful in nature. We weren't going to die after spending just one evening in Julia's life, Helen was proof of that. If I awoke with some nausea, or perhaps a few hives, then that would be a point in the right direction, wouldn't it?

"All right, I'll do it, but please don't ask me to take a bath." I walked briskly into the bathroom after grabbing my toothbrush and paste from my satchel and quickly closed the door. I disrobed and threw on the modest dress; light green and covered in dainty white flowers with a line of three buttons below the collar. It fell above my knees and had short sleeves with a lettuce trim. It was comfortable and reminded me of something I would have worn to slumber parties in my youth (there was always the unspoken game that was internally comparing everyone's pyjamas).

I turned around to face myself in Julia's mirror and my breath caught slightly at the heaviness of the situation. I thought back to the phone call I had with my father earlier in the evening and the excitement I felt towards the case; but it wasn't just a case. This was someone's life, rich in thoughts and memories and experiences and we were now immersed in an overwhelming and unsettling portion of it. I wasn't turned off from the idea of tagging along for more of these adventures if I were asked. In fact, I felt a burning desire and drive to make right for those that had died unfairly and tragically at the hands of others.

I swiped a lone tear from my cheek that I hadn't realised had been there. After I brushed my teeth I let my hair down, feeling more secure with the weight of the thick waves falling down my shoulders and upper back. I opened the door quietly in case John had actually fallen asleep within those few minutes.

"Do you want me to turn this light off?" I gestured to a lamp and quietly asked Sherlock, who was sitting upright in the bed with his legs crossed and fingers laced together across his stomach. The fact that his shoes were off was really the only inherently comfortable looking thing about him.

"I suppose, unless you are unwarrantedly afraid and feel the need to leave it-"

"Turn it off." John groaned.

I shot an amused smile at Sherlock and flipped the switch. We had made sure to light all of the candles in the room that Julia had out and appeared to use regularly. Thankfully the room was large and there was a decent amount of ventilation, otherwise we all certainly would have awoken the next morning sporting scent-induced headaches. Their constant flickering was a comfort to me as it always had been, and though I wouldn't admit this, I was thankful to not be enveloped by darkness in this particular room. I felt weird about getting under the sheets and disturbing the bed more than I would by just lying on top of everything. The sheets were luxurious and plush and the pillows, similar to Helen's, felt divine. I stretched my legs out and lightly clasped my hands over my abdomen. I stared out the windows on the far wall, then turned my attention to the beam lined ceiling above me. I didn't even remember closing my eyes before drifting off to sleep.

x

I slowly became aware of my body as I woke up. I was on my side, knees pointing towards the door, my hand feeling heavy on my skin as I had placed it on my neck at some point in the night. I sat up in confusion, staring out of the still dark windows at the foggy night as rain pelted the windows. I rubbed my eyes before lying back down on my side to go back to sleep when I saw it. My body tensed, my chest became tight as my breath caught in my throat and my mind abandoned any sense of drowsiness. Under the crack in the door next to my side of the bed I could see two shadows, almost as if someone was just standing on the other side in the dimly lit hallway. I slowly turned to look at Sherlock who was seemingly fast asleep on his back. It felt a bit strange to see someone like him in this vulnerable state. I knew I shouldn't be alone and the only witness in trying to unpack what was happening in the hallway. I then heard quiet footsteps and saw that the shadow had moved, though the footsteps grew softer then louder and closer, as though whomever was out there was pacing.

I couldn't reach Sherlock from across the king bed so I got on my knees and lightly crawled over to his silhouette, dimly lit by the glow of candles lined up on a desk behind him. I put a gentle hand on his arm so he, fingers crossed, wouldn't startle awake. His eyes slowly opened and he immediately adopted a gaze of obvious irritation, like he was rolling his eyes without physically doing so. He began to open his mouth to say something sarcastic I'm sure when I boldly but lightly put a hand over his mouth. I shook my head and put a finger to my lips, pointing towards the door. He could instantly sense my confusion and see the concern and excitement in my wide eyes. He wrapped his long fingers around my wrist and slowly removed my hand as we both leaned forward to see that the shadow had returned for a second before leaving again.

Summoning some courage while listening to John snore, I put my bare feet on the large rug beneath the bed, praying the hardwood floors underneath wouldn't creak. I tiptoed to the door, turning to Sherlock for encouragement as we shared a few seconds of eye contact. I motioned to the knob and then to the crack under the door and shrugged, silently asking him do I look underneath, or do I whip this sucker open? He pointed down. I got on my hands and knees and then with the most tenderness I could muster, crawled towards the door, putting my head to the ground and my eye at level with the floor so I could glimpse who was on the other side. I was greeted by a squinting, pale coloured eye returning my gaze.

I gasped and fell backwards before hearing rapid footsteps, so I scrambled up and opened the door, stepping into the hallway only to hear a door shut and faintly but clearly heard the sound of someone rapidly descending stairs.

"Damn." I muttered as Sherlock joined me in the doorway, both of us deciding to run down the hallway on the same breath. Sherlock continued on while I put an ear to Helen's door, only to hear her breathing deeply in her much needed state of rest. I jogged on to join Sherlock around the corner where it had sounded as though he had opened and closed a door before finding the one with a staircase.

Sherlock started running to the bottom of the narrow, winding steps whereas I made a point to open each door that lined them. With every corner it seemed there was another door in the wall; closet, hallway, cleaning supply closet, cobweb filled cupboard, another hallway. I assumed I was steps away from the basement at this point. I turned around and ran up the steps, taking the only route I knew to get to the main door. I ran down the grand staircase and put my hand on the doorknob before remembering the beep of the security system hours earlier. I hustled over to the main windows and got up close, peering outside with my hands around the sides of my face. Nothing. Whoever it was was still in the house and most definitely knew their way around it.

"Blast." Sherlock snarled causing me to jump, not expecting him, or anyone, to walk out from the first floor hallway.

"I saw an eye when I kneeled down," I said, looking back out the window towards the driveway, "peering back at me. It was light blue or grey, light enough to where it wasn't fully lost in the dim lighting. It was a man, but I couldn't make out an age. I didn't see many wrinkles, so he was most likely younger… Or he's just a bloke that lives in the basement here and doesn't get much sun which honestly wouldn't surprise me in this damn house." I finished, sitting frustratedly down on the couch and pressing my palms over my eyes. I felt slightly pleased that I was messing with the all too pristine cushions that Sherlock had commented on earlier.

I felt Sherlock take a seat at the other end of the couch. I removed one palm from my eye to give him a sideways glance. I didn't expect him to sit still after the pursuit when whoever it was was still very clearly somewhere in the house. I raised my eyebrow when I saw that he was smiling to himself.

"What?" I questioned.

"'What'? Isn't it obvious? We know of two people currently inhabiting this house. One of which we met-"

"And is asleep in her bedroom."

"And one of which we will meet tomorrow morning. The one that was outside our door. There's no way the ego of a cosmetics industry CEO would let this lie. He'll be wanting to win us over before we go, I'm just sorry we couldn't catch him now to see if he had anything incriminating on hand."

Turning it over in my head, there was little doubt in my mind that Dr. Roylott was the one that had stood outside.

"How certain are you that his presence in the hallway was suspicious or malicious? Could he just be a man in grief, pacing in front of his dead step-daughter's door out of concern or routine comfort?"

Sherlock stared at me, legs crossed with one arm on the back of the couch and the other on the arm of the couch.

"You know grief." He observed.

"Yes, I know grief."

A few moments of surprisingly comfortable silence followed.

"I have to admit, I was a bit surprised that you didn't make the connection between me and the bombing. I was confident you would have."

"Of course I did." He shrugged with his hand.

"Of course you did?" I kicked one of my legs underneath me so I could sit up straighter. "Why didn't you let on?"

For a couple of seconds it almost didn't seem like he had an answer. "I knew you would bring it up, and I'm," he stared at the ceiling as if trying to find the right word, "learning to let people breathe… And like I said, I was confident that you would open up eventually. If I bombarded you with questions and details and names, would that have encouraged answers and particulars from you? Doubtful. In fact I imagined you would have stopped speaking with me all together."

"Your observation in the car was purposefully wrong. A probe."

"Obviously." He scoffed.

Hurt flashed across my eyes at his callousness before I stared at him emotionlessly for a few seconds, then I wordlessly stood up with the intention of heading back to the room. Or the kitchen. One of the two. I felt the colour rise to my cheeks because of his condescension and manipulation.

"Wait, wait." He grabbed my wrist for the second time that night, though out of pettiness I refused to turn around, feeling like a child with no help from the pyjamas I was sporting. "I'm… sorry." The way he said it made the word seem foreign to Sherlock and I felt slightly sorry for him.

"I appreciate the sentiment."

"You do?"

"Sure." I shook his hand from my arm. "I mean, of course. You said that you're learning, not that you've learned. That's apparent. At least you're self aware in that regard." I wasn't angry, I just felt slightly violated and it obviously showed.

"It very clearly wasn't my intention to cause you turmoil." He said flippantly.

"My mother was murdered by someone that planted a bomb rooms away from where I was standing. It killed children, parents, grandparents." I finally turned around. "You haven't caused me turmoil."

He shifted uncomfortably.

"You've undoubtedly done research. What do you know?" I asked, softening my tone.

Sherlock dramatically fell back on the couch again.

"Virtually nothing." He offered with a grimace of frustration. "I've combed over articles, cctv footage of the building's exterior, eyewitness accounts, but nothing."

I nodded. That was what I had anticipated, unfortunately.

"I'm convinced it was a coworker." I said quietly. "Not fully, of course. I can't be sure. They would have to know the building well and perhaps possessed after hours access. They knew how to enter and leave the museum unseen, aware of all the weak points that aren't under the surveillance of cctv. There's a blip in the building's internal security footage from the evening prior." Sherlock put a hand to his chin in interest, obviously that was an insight that he would have been hard pressed to get as an outsider, as I was sure the museum wanted to keep that blip under wraps. "I don't think someone was working alone. To plot an attack of that magnitude and kill dozens, wouldn't that individual want the - the disgusting glory? To have their picture plastered across news channels, for everyone to know their name? Isn't that the 'why'? I'm just sitting here, constantly waiting for another attack to happen. Trying to think of what the endgame is here, I… I just don't know."

It felt good to finally get things off of my chest. Up until now I didn't really have a conversational outlet for this. I had talked with coworkers after everything happened but their tone was always that of fear and it was gossipy in nature. It didn't feel productive, which was what I craved.

We both startled when we heard a distant door close. I groaned. No more doors. Sherlock immediately followed the sound, heading up the stairs to the hallway containing the bedrooms. I followed less enthusiastically. He was standing in the middle of the hallway, listening carefully when John whipped open the bedroom door.

"You had left this open." John tiredly griped, then exchanged a curious glance with Sherlock and I when he noticed we were both standing there.

"We'll fill you in tomorrow morning, so I suppose you just have to wait a couple of hours." I brushed past them and into the bedroom, now realising how utterly exhausted I was.

"Fine by me." John said drowsily.

"Goodnight." I stated to the room, before letting my head fall back into the pillow.

x

I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. I lightly stretched every limb before sitting up and opening my eyes to see neither Sherlock or John in the room. The pile of toiletries they were going to test at Bart's were also gone. I glanced at the clock and realised it was only quarter after seven in the morning.

"What the…"

I ran into the bathroom and threw on my day clothes again after checking my body for a stray hive or two. Nothing to see there. I folded the night dress as carefully as I could and decided to just put it back in the dresser. I ran down the steps, quickly surveying the sitting room before walking to the kitchen. Maybe they had settled down for a quick cup of coffee? I whipped open the door confidently and then took an apologetic step back, surprised to see a man that I had yet to make the acquaintance of seated at the breakfast nook built in under a set of windows. He was wearing a plush forest green robe and had on striped pyjamas adorned with an embroidered 'R' that peeked out from behind the robe.

"I-I'm terribly sorry for bursting in. I thought my friends were here." I explained. "I'm hoping Helen filled you in on everything?"

"She had mentioned something in a text." The man replied calmly, setting down the paper that he had been reading. "Have a seat, have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee? I'd feel rude drinking mine in front of you." He stood up and smiled, walking over to their extensive coffee bar.

"Thank you. That looks as though it would make a great latte."

"You got it."

I was unable to take my eyes off of him as I walk over to take my place on the cushioned bench encircling the dark, round wooden table. There was something about his presence that was overwhelming. He exuded power. I felt like I was under his control, not wanting to make any sort of incorrect move. I watched closely as he pressed buttons and grabbed a tall mug on the counter nearby.

"You've had a pleasant stay?" He turned to me and asked, the machine starting to make whirring noises.

"Yes, I've never been anywhere quite like this. I hope we haven't been of any disturbance to your routine?" I inquired, raising a brow as his light grey eyes bore into mine.

"No, no, but I'm afraid I was of some disturbance to yours. I find it quite hard to sleep at night, you know. I was taking one of my nightly strolls of the property when I was overcome with a sense of dread and loss, as has become the norm for me these days. I didn't mean to startle you by taking comfort near Julia's room."

"No need to apologise."

"I ran, as I'd rather not be seen in such a state." He gave a charming smile as he walked over with my mug, steam rolling invitingly off the top of its contents. I realised that I thought the man outside our door had been younger because of his skin- smooth and deeply tanned. Not reflective of an older gentleman with more years under his belt, though that made total sense with his line of work and work he'd undoubtedly had done.

"I understand." I put on my nicest smile, though I still felt skeptical as opposed to reassured. He was talking of these emotions too flatly for me to be convinced that that's what he had been experiencing.

"Please tell me, did you find anything of interest in Julia's room?" The skin around his eyes finally crinkled with concern, though I was unsure if I should fill him in just yet.

"Nothing concrete, I'm afraid. I wish I had better news. I can imagine how stressful all of this has been for your family, to put it mildly." I made it my mission to not avert my gaze from his.

"Mm. That really is too bad." He and I both took sips from our drinks, still not breaking eye contact. "You never told me your name."

"Evelyn."

He waited until I said my last name.

"…Bennett."

"Lovely." He tilted his head, covered with perfectly slicked back waves.

"Have you returned to work?" I questioned.

"Here and there. It's a running joke that they'll never see me retire. At this point I've afforded the luxury of not being needed often. After decades of establishing integrity, demanding quality, and assembling a top notch creative team," He spread his arms in a gesture. "What more is needed from me? Foresight will get one very far. You're familiar with my company, yes?" He made no point of hiding it as he surveyed my face and hair.

"Yes, though I've yet to try any of your products."

"Pity, as I was about to say that I hoped this," he waved his perfectly manicured fingers in front of my face, "was a result of my indirect handiwork. I would have been proud."

I tried to rid my face of any expression, feeling uncomfortable and also annoyed that my latte was too hot to just chug. I finally heard a door close outside the room, hoping and praying that it was Sherlock and John.

"Shall we invite your friends to join us?" Dr. Roylott asked, his hands together as if in a gesture of prayer as he quickly walked to the door. His robe catching the air behind him.

"Hello!" He called, "Why don't you boys come in?"

"I suppose we have a few minutes before we need to head out." I heard Sherlock respond, his voice getting closer.

"Have a seat, please. Coffee, coffee, coffee. Anyone? I think I'll have another cup."

"Yeah, thanks." John said, joining me at the table and smiling. "Good morning."

"Sure. Where were you two?" I whispered, under the noise of the coffee maker.

"Had to, er, bag everything up and put it in the car." John responded quietly, then coughed and gave a thumbs up to Dr. Roylott who held up the mug he was about to fill. I felt a bit daft for not realising the absence of my car keys. "Then Sherlock wanted to walk the grounds a bit, so we did, and he filled me in on what happened last night."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is it?" The doctor asked. "Why don't you have a cup, no need to leave us so soon."

"I'm feeling energised enough as is."

Sherlock leaned against the wall next to John, choosing not to sit down.

"Here you are." Roylott looked at John, dragging out the word "are" expectantly.

"Oh, Watson. John Watson." John nodded.

"I was just catching up with your lovely friend here," the doctor gestured at me, "a pity to hear that nothing of note was found during your stay."

"Yes, quite. Terribly sorry about that." Sherlock stated brusquely.

"Tell me, have you personally been feeling any signs of fatigue? Aches and pains that are out of the norm, perhaps?" John inquired.

Roylott laughed, "I have no normal aches and pains and that still stands, John. Nothing new that's cropped up within the last month either. Though, if I could take poor Helen and Julia's places, I would in a heartbeat." He said, putting a hand with a ring bearing pinky finger over his heart. I cleared my throat lightly and took my last sip.

"Another one?" He quickly asked, grabbing my cup and flashing a perfect smile.

"No, no thank you. That was all I needed to get us back to London."

"Before you go, Evelyn, you mentioned being virgin to my line of products-"

I heard John take a comically large gulp next to me before setting his mug down and staring at the table.

"And I'd feel horrible if you were to leave this visit entirely empty handed after all of your hard work. Just a moment, you three. Excuse me." He smiled before leaving the room.

We waited until his steps faded to open our mouths.

"What in the hell was all of that?" John declared.

"Keys. Please. Whoever has them." I held my hand out and tried but failed to resist bursting out laughing, which was a habit of mine when I was uncomfortable. John pulled them out of his trouser pocket and handed them to me.

"I don't understand. I do not understand." John ran a hand through his hair.

"I understand that he's entirely up to something." I stated, successfully holding back the laughs this time.

"This is disturbingly obvious." Sherlock echoed.

"The sooner we get to Bart's the better." John said from behind his mug, making a point to down the rest of his coffee as quickly as possible. "You think this is safe, right?" He asked, wiping his mouth and staring at a few stray grounds left in the bottom of his cup.

I snorted slightly, in near disbelief of the situation. We heard a distant door slam and made ourselves seem as though we hadn't spoken since he'd left.

"Here we are." He bursted through the door with a gift bag filled to the brim with products. "Everything a young woman could ever need, right here. Even included some extra items for the man in your life. Lucky devil." He winked and grinned.

It was my turn to stare wide eyed at the table though I quickly recovered. "Er, if I can wrangle one I'll be sure to give them to him. Thanks." I forced a smile.

"Speaking of wrangling, we have an appointment to make early this afternoon that was very difficult to secure. Time is of the essence for us." Sherlock lied.

"Ah, yes, the ever moving time. You're not wrong." Roylott shrugged. "Let me see you all to the door."

We filtered out of the kitchen and followed him outside, ready to get the hell out of there.

"Take care! Thank you!" He waved from the front step as we returned his waves and got into the car. I turned the keys in the ignition and waved once more before pulling out of the driveway.

"God, I can't wait to shower," I shuddered, "and not with that." I glanced at the gift bag next to John in the backseat.

"Why do I feel the need to take this to Bart's as well?" John shook his head and pushed the bag further towards the other seat.

"Thankfully you were here to bring out his inner creep." Sherlock offered.

"I think he's more of an outer creep, Sherlock."

"So glad I could be of any assistance." I said while turning on the windshield wipers as we were once again met by the now ever familiar rain.


	5. Mortal Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for switching around between UK and US spellings. I'm sticking with UK going forward x

Once back in London we all stopped at Baker Street to shower and freshen up before I promised to drop Sherlock and John off at Bart's to conduct their testing. I wanted to grocery shop and spend time with my cat before picking them up later.

"Hey, you." I said, opening the door and smiling at the fluffy grey feline that blinked at me from the couch. I walked over to join him and gave him a nice scratch behind his ears. It didn't take me long to throw my clothes in the wash and jump in the shower, spending a few extra minutes in the comfort of the steam and hot water.

I decided to throw on a favourite summer dress of mine as the humidity had risen during the morning, the July sun finally coming out to play after a solid week of rain. The dress was a v neck with a mostly open back and shorter, comfortably flowy sleeves. It was fitted towards the top but with a loose skirt that stopped above my knees; perfect for the city heat that sometimes verged on unrelenting. Muggy weather in cities always struck me as more uncomfortable than hot weather in the country. I ran my hands over my stomach to smooth the black fabric. I attempted but failed to dry my hair, letting it twist and curl as it wanted to. I decided to slap on some makeup as I supposed both Sherlock and John needed to use the shower and figured I had extra time. I kept it simple, throwing on a light layer of foundation and blush to add some much needed life to my face. I added a thin line of eyeliner and a layer of mascara, finishing everything off by running a sheer but rosy gloss over my lips. It wasn't much, but I finally felt refreshed and mostly cleansed of the previous night.

I waited in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with the cat at my feet as I ate one of Mrs. Hudson's leftover scones for an energy boost. Sitting and drinking tea with Sherlock and John in their flat just yesterday felt like weeks ago. My phone vibrated, a message flashing across the screen from a number that wasn't in my contacts.

One minute.

After I'd barely finished reading the text I heard a distant door close and shoes quickly descending the steps, followed by a rapid set of knocks at my door. I shook my head, assuming Sherlock had managed to snag my number while I was sleeping.

"You know, there's hardly any point in sending a one minute warning, especially if you're then going to cut that minute in half." I said as I opened the door and slipped on a pair of black flats.

"I didn't see why you would have needed any more time than what you were allotted."

"Then you're lucky I'm content with damp hair." I responded with a hair elastic in my teeth, attempting to gather the heavy waves into a ponytail.

"There's something different about you." Sherlock said with squinted eyes.

"Mm, thanks?"

"Not inherently a compliment." He clarified.

"Pity."

"You look healthy, I mean."

I raised my brows. After closing the door and eliminating the illusion of space that the view into my flat provided, we were made aware of our close proximity to each other on my door mat.

"I'd hope so." I said, assuming this was the most "flattery" I could expect from an individual like Sherlock Holmes. I took a few steps backwards and looked up the stairs to see John finally heading down, looking a bit disgruntled with still wet hair and a clear plastic bag filled with our suspicious toiletries.

"Use any of my gifts?" I jested.

"Ha ha." John said sarcastically. "I'm surprised I'm still breathing after that coffee scare this morning."

We filed into my car, Sherlock calling shotgun yet again and pointing me in the direction of Barts.

"You'll keep me updated as soon as you find anything out, yes?" Curiosity was getting the better of me with the excitement of finding out if, more confidently which, item was responsible for Julia Stoner's death and Helen Stoner's decline in health.

"If you insist." Sherlock offered plainly.

"I didn't spend the evening in a dead woman's night dress and run after Grimesby Roylott at three in the morning out of pure indifference."

"Is there any doubt in anyone's mind that he isn't guilty? Or is he just an innocent weasel?" John questioned flatly from behind us.

Even though Roylott did radiate peculiar energy, I couldn't bring myself to be certain that he was responsible.

"I almost feel that if he were guilty he would have done more to win our favour this morning." I shrugged.

I glanced at Sherlock for a few moments as he rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, staring at the buildings that passed by his window. I was endlessly curious as to what was going on inside his mind. It then occurred to me that I'd nearly forgotten about the red specks covering Julia's body and the apparent snake bite as well. We all seemed to have disregarded those details within the last day.

"What of the red dots and the bite?"

"The bite is a red herring, not worth our time." Sherlock said, waving his hand. "As for the dots, a side effect of a particular poison we've yet to acquaint ourselves with."

I nodded quietly. It was a relatively short drive to Bart's, only a little over ten minutes, so I bid them farewell, reminded John to keep me updated as he was more reliable, and made my way back to Baker Street. On the way I stopped at one of the more decently sized Tesco Metros on Regent Street, always busy with shoppers and a pain to drive around, but it was a beautiful area. I never grew tired of London, even the most touristy bits; in fact, I liked finding excuses to let myself venture into most of them.

I found parking after a few minutes and walked towards the shop, admiring London's ever impressive architecture. I people watched wealthy shoppers and skirted around slower tourists, understanding their need to take everything in. I could never totally comprehend why locals complained so much about tourists being slow walkers- this was London. Even I was prone to taking my time in areas familiar to me, because I was very often struck by the beauty of my home city. As long as everyone stood on the right side of the tube escalators and not the left, I was content. I pegged Sherlock as one of the more impatient Londoners.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds as the electric doors slid open, sighing to myself as the air conditioning blasted on my face. I rounded up as many essentials as I could- coffee beans, cream, bread, general baking ingredients, pastas, fruits, vegetables. I wasn't as much of a cook as my dad was, but I had my fair share of knowledge and had mastered a few choice meals if I needed to impress a friend or a date.

"All right?" The very clearly angst-filled teen behind the counter asked me without making eye contact as I unloaded my basket.

"Yeah, you?"

"'mazing." He said emotionlessly.

I bagged everything myself in a few reusable satchels, giving the clerk a wave for good measure as I headed back out into the hustle and bustle, surprised to see him return it with a faint grin. I made it back to my car, walking around a few random blocks on my way just because the sun felt so welcomed on my skin. As soon as I touched the handle I felt my phone vibrate, excitedly fumbling with it to see what was happening over in the lab. I could understand why Sherlock got bored so easily; tagging along on something as exhilarating as a case and then meandering around a Tesco really put everything into perspective.

John:

No news yet. See you in an hour?

See you then. I responded quickly.

I passed through the neighbourhood of Marylebone on my way back to the flat, laughing to myself as I saw groups of pub hoppers dressed as vampires for one reason or another.

"London." I shook my head.

I threw together a colourful salad and brewed myself a French press of coffee when I got back to my flat. I shot my father a text to tell him I was enjoying my new place (even though I hadn't yet spent a night in it, I thought to myself) and that we were finally getting some sun in the city. I decided to unpack a few boxes after putting the groceries away just to get something done before needing to pick up the boys. My phone buzzed again, revealing a text from John simply stating:

Bubblebath.

My eyes instantly widened and I fist pumped excitedly. "Yes!" I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, bumping into Mrs. Hudson outside of our building.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Evelyn! How are you doing, dear? Did you have a decent first night?"

"Marvelous. Really beginning to feel like home." I said hurriedly as I jogged to the driver's side door. "Off to Bart's. Breakthrough in the case. Talk soon!"

She clasped her hands together like a proud mum, waving and smiling before continuing on her merry way.

I pulled in front of Bart's in what wasn't even a parking spot and Sherlock and John quickly ran to the car.

"Drive, now." Sherlock said, slamming the door and grinning victoriously.

"Where?"

"Surrey." He said, half shouting in excitement.

I did a double take. "Again?"

"Again?" He mocked me in a higher pitched voice, "of course again." It was as though his excitement was about to pop the roof off the car so I didn't fight back in any attempt to protest or calm him.

"Come on, John! Are you entering the right number?"

"Yes!" John hissed, waving one hand in front of Sherlock's face to hush him as he fumbled to hold his phone up to his ear in an attempt to contact Helen. "She's not answering. Do I look up their home phone number?"

"Just to have Dr. Roylott answer? Are you daft?"

"So it was him? You know?" I asked.

"The bubblebath, a product under his name in both Julia and Helen's rooms, isn't even available in shops yet. A quick online search will tell you that. I found that it contains a slow acting poison. The only fingerprints on the bottle were-"

"Hello, yes, Helen." John said over everyone, instantly hushing us up as he feigned social normalcy. "Just a quick question about bubblebath liquid we decided to test… Yes, yes. You've been using that as well?"

John nodded and listened to Helen as we weaved through traffic, the lunchtime rush really starting to pick up as I pushed to get us out of the city.

"She says it was a gift from Roylott to both of them. He told them it had already been tested during its development." John summarised quietly, holding his mobile to his chest.

"Give me that." Sherlock spat. "Hello, Helen? Yes. This was no accident. Your stepfather killed your sister and every time you take a bath you're just one step closer."

"Sherlock!"

"Yep, taking that back." John said quickly. "You're out for coffee? Yes? Don't go home, all right? Don't contact your stepfather either, we'll get it sorted. Get another cappuccino, yeah? We're on our way, don't worry. Bye."

"There's one set of fingerprints on the bottle," Sherlock said excitedly, holding a pointer finger in front of my face to drive the point home. "Obviously those would belong to Julia. If it were any run of the mill gift, the giver's prints would also be visible. He stripped the bottle's exterior of any clues with solutions, he wore gloves when handling it, he put the puncture marks in Julia's ankle to deflect attention onto one of her fiancé's snakes. Oh, we've got you, haven't we." Sherlock finished, smiling and clenching his fists as he stared ahead.

"Oh, let's pray for more cases like this." John said, closing his eyes and smiling wistfully as he laid his head back. "Manor houses, obvious creeps, easy answers. Solved itself."

"Easy?" I questioned, "Was that before or after you were phoning every zoo in our area?"

I laid on the accelerator a bit extra, pulling into western Surrey in just over forty minutes.

"Do I just pull up?" I questioned.

"Why wouldn't we? No need to act as though anything suspect is going on just yet. Times like these call for being so overt it's covert."

I expected Sherlock to leap out of the car before we had even rolled to a stop, but he instantly put on a front of composure, taking his normal long and calculated strides to the front door while we followed closely behind. He rang the doorbell, rolling his sleeves up his forearms while we waited for someone to open the door. I stepped to the side and tried to peak through a window, expecting to see the doctor or one of the regular cleaners Helen had mentioned. I shared an uneasy glance with John as Sherlock took to ringing the doorbell repeatedly.

"Damn." He said, banging a fist against the door. I watched his shoulders rise as he took one deep breath before taking a few steps back to survey our surroundings. His eyes were drawn to a particular potted plant and I was able to observe that its dirt appeared to be more disturbed than the others… and that was before Sherlock dug both hands inside. After a few moments of scrounging in the dirt he held a ball of tin foil in his palm. He unwrapped it quickly, unearthing a house key that he immediately shoved into the door. When we entered the home I felt momentarily silly. Helen was out for coffee as we knew and perhaps Roylott had just left for a business meeting in London. Or, perhaps, he was in the house and knew the jig was up. If he had nothing to lose, who knew what he was capable of and willing to do?

"Let's stay together, all right? Sherlock?" John said dubiously, sticking both hands out as he looked around the sitting room. I was now hyper aware of all the doors, hallways, stairways, closets, and assumed secret rooms within the structure.

"Listen." Sherlock said, walking past the formal sitting room. I took a deep breath as I tried to calm my anxiety and tune into my senses. In the distance it sounded as though a television or radio was playing.

"All of a sudden this is so much more eery." I whispered.

"And I didn't think that was possible." John whispered in return.

We followed Sherlock down a hallway that jutted out to the right behind the sitting room, one that we hadn't previously ventured down. I presumed this was where Roylott's bedroom and/or home office were. I got as close to Sherlock's back as I could, feeling more secure next to him. I was hopeful that a fraction of his confidence would somehow rub off on me. We walked until we were standing in front of the room the sound was issuing from. From the audio I could very clearly make out that it was some sort of news channel. I looked at the crack under the door and saw dancing blue toned lights from the telly. I tried to calm my breathing as Sherlock grasped the old doorknob, startling slightly as he jerked it open.

"Thank God." John said with a relieved hand over his heart. Thick curtains were drawn so the room was mostly dark, but aside from the blonde anchor speaking on the television screen, there was nobody in the office. We definitely weren't quiet upon entering the home so someone would have had time to tuck themselves away if they wanted to, but Sherlock didn't seem too concerned about someone hiding within this space. He walked behind Roylott's desk and placed both hands on it, lifting his head to look around the room, resembling a large cat on its haunches.

"Can we turn that off?" I quietly asked.

"Please." John said, grabbing the remote.

I stepped out of the office and made my way into the sitting room, momentarily abandoning our plan of sticking together. I slowly walked in circles as I thought, slightly afraid that if I stood in one spot for too long I would find myself with a knife in the back. That was paranoia talking, but valid under these circumstances. John joined me in the living room, running a hand through his hair.

"He's not in his bedroom either." He shrugged, pointing down the hallway.

"Good. I'm counting on him being out of the house entirely, thanks. What next?"

"The girls' rooms, I'd reckon. Finding anything, Sherlock?" John called down the hallway.

"Aside from a cockroach stuck to a lint roller, nothing of note." He responded flatly as he walked briskly out of the hallway. "Let's clear the first floor."

Sherlock decided to step out the back door and quickly scan the grounds while John and I moved down the hall. We checked a few closets and a pantry before I put a hand on the kitchen door and let it swing open as I walked inside, taking comfort and feeling a bit of gumption in the fact that I was already familiar with this room. Much like earlier, I was greeted with the unexpected. I gasped as I staggered backwards, a silent scream catching in my throat as my chest tightened and my knees became weak. As ghastly as it was, I couldn't peel my eyes away for want of convincing myself that it was real. John joined me seconds later and gasped as well, firmly grabbing both of my upper arms and instinctively pulling me backwards a few steps.

"Sherlock!" He shouted, as swaying ever so slightly as he hung from the kitchen light fixture, was a one Mr. Grimesby Roylott.

Sherlock sprinted down the hall, sliding to a stop as he stared open mouthed at the ceiling. He walked directly up to the body, staring at Roylott's face that was thankfully left staring out of the windows and not at us. After analysing the body for a few prolonged moments Sherlock slammed his open palm down on the table, plates and silverware left over from breakfast clattering from the impact. We would never know why Dr. Roylott committed such an act. His surviving stepdaughter would be left in complete darkness as to why he wanted to end her life. She'd be stuck knowing that she spent weeks grieving and finding comfort with the man that was responsible for her sister's end, but would never know the reasoning behind all of it.

After the initial shock I was surprisingly calm about the situation, following John as he walked over to look at the body more closely. I called the police as John and Sherlock discussed the situation, overhearing details of the supposed time of death and John frustratedly repeating, "Why?" as I spoke with the dispatcher. I wanted to call Helen before calling the police, but I felt better about the home and kitchen being more secure upon her arrival. She showed up as I was standing in the front garden, offering my description of the events and knowledge of the case to a couple of officers. Helen was obviously a wreck, but on her face I could clearly see a sense of relief. Relief that she knew she was going to be okay and that whomever was responsible could no longer touch her.

The time that we spent there after discovering the body was a blur. Flashing lights, talking to strangers, answering questions, telling the same story again and again, being thanked by officers and curious neighbours. I never did get to say goodbye to Helen as I wanted to provide her with some space, but I decided that down the line I would perhaps pay her a visit or send her a gift. Not flowers, I knew how sick I had grown of receiving those myself, but maybe some quality coffee that she could now make in the comfort of her home again. I didn't know how Sherlock and John moved from case to case without developing attachments and taking things so personally. Maybe they just hid it well.

I waved at John from across the garden when he seemed to be done with speaking to a group of first responders. Walking over to join him, hopefully find Sherlock, and finally head home.

"All right?" He asked.

"I guess." I hesitated. "Mostly relieved, but frustrated. I want to know everything, but this is all we're going to get. All she's going to get." I gestured towards the house.

"Normally it does feel better than this," John nodded, "solving a case. You'll just have to tag along for more. That's what I decided to do." He winked, "Follow Sherlock around. Haven't had a desire to quit or move out yet. Well, not recently, let's say."

I smiled while searching his face. "Do you have him figured out yet? Any part of him?"

He laughed, "Absolutely not. I know that he's a walking contradiction. The cleverest man I know, but also the most ignorant. To be able to deconstruct all that a person is from just one glance, but to then turn around and ask me who the Prime Minister is. That's Sherlock Holmes. Everything in between is my own mystery to figure out, I reckon. All of this-" He gestured to the police and the manor. "That's his, at the end of the day. Not mine. I just show up."

"It's addicting, all of this, the solving and the spending time with him. Does that sound weird? Or worse, unintentionally affectionate?" I grinned.

"Trust me, I get it."

"I'm desperate to understand it all and humanise him. Find out what makes him tick aside from murder and chaos and yellow caution tape."

"I do know that he takes his coffee black with two sugars." John said, holding up a finger.

"That's a start." I smiled. "Speak of the devil." I glimpsed Sherlock heading towards us across the grass.

"That was disappointing." He said flatly, stopping and standing next to us.

"At least we know who's responsible. At least." I grimaced.

"Come on." John said, putting a hand on each of our backs and steering us towards my car. "I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get the hell out of Surrey."


	6. Notting Hill

The days following the end of the case were fairly quiet. I devoted the majority of my time to making my flat feel like home; hanging up the artwork my parents had gifted me, arranging throw pillows on the couch, ordering wallpapers and paints and light fixtures, setting up my record player. I was off to a good start, and at this point I was very truthfully excited about being able to call 221C my own. I hadn't had a proper sit down with the boys since arriving home from Surrey. John and I would exchange the occasional text, mostly about Sherlock, and I would bump into them in the hall every now and again. I desperately wanted to tag along when the next case presented itself, but in my normal fashion I just couldn't entirely assert what I wanted for fear of intruding where I wasn't wanted or needed. What use would I be? I had a car, yes, but unless they needed to head over to Surrey again or up to York or perhaps Scotland, then I wasn't sure what sort of aid or input I could provide.

I had just finished giving the fireplace a proper cleaning, as even though it was July my basement flat was prone to feeling in the midst of an eternal chill. Maybe it was psychosomatic, but still. I was excited to be able to warm the place up by starting evening fires when I felt particularly cold. I finished cleaning just as one of my old records had quit playing, feeling inspired to go for a walk. I craved sunlight and fresh air, another side effect of living in a basement flat. I washed my hands and forearms of old ash and threw on a floral dress; faint pink with a dainty red flower pattern. An escape from my normal black threads as I was feeling colorful, deciding to go for a stroll around Notting Hill. My family and I had vacationed in New Orleans and Charleston when I was a teenager, so the vibrantly colored houses in Notting Hill reminded me of springs in the lively American south.

I poured Cat some food and sat with him on the floor, stroking his back while he ate. I decided that I could freshen up my home with some greenery. The stalls at Notting Hill would have overpriced plants, but I'd always been one to support smaller businesses and locals rather than corporations. I grabbed sunglasses and a few reusable bags in case I did more damage whilst shopping than I intended to. I was walking towards my car when I heard the front door of our building creak open and slam shut. The only person I could think of that would shut it like that was-

"Sherlock, hi."

"Where are you going?"

"Portobello Road Market. Thinking about going for a walk and picking up a few plants." I internally cackled at the idea of Sherlock having to tend to any living thing himself.

"Plants? How tedious. Why?" He scoffed.

"I mean, I live in a basement."

"I need to go to a bookstore." He said, still standing on the front step.

"And?"

"You could take me."

"You could also walk ten minutes to the one in Marylebone." I offered with a raised brow.

He shrugged.

"All right, come on." I gave up and said after a few moments of staring, getting into the driver's side.

"How did you manage to get by before you had a neighbour with a car?" I asked with a sly glance as I turned the key in the ignition.

"If someone I associate with has made the foolish decision to purchase a car in London then I need to ensure they get their money's worth."

I looked at him in surprise, "Nice." He didn't let on that he had made any sort of joke, but I chose to interpret it as one. "You're coming with me to Notting Hill for the afternoon. You can go to one of the bookshops there." He was about to protest before I cut him off in jest, "That's the price you have to pay! Sorry."

"That market is a nightmare. I can't understand why one would voluntarily go."

"Spending time in the occasional crowd won't hurt you."

"1918 flu pandemic, the Plague of Justinian-"

"The Antonine plague, 165 AD." I interjected, placing emphasis on the date. He looked faintly impressed. He was conversing with a history major and museum employee after all, "You can do it, Sherlock." I offered with friendly condescension, "You'll help me find a few plants, we'll go to your bookstore and hopefully along the way we won't come down with a form of the plague. You deal with corpses, poisons, murderers, weapons…" I trailed off as the list went on and on in my head.

"Welcomed excitement that I can mostly control." He shrugged. "Though any more control than I have and it wouldn't be exciting, would it? What could a corpse do to me?"

"Hm, right, or a madman dangling a gun in your face."

"That's just a simple mind game of 'how do I get inside this person's head and make them drop their weapon,' and it's exhilarating to crack. Crowds? Purely a nuisance."

I couldn't help the soft stream air that came out of my noise as I quietly laughed to myself.

"What? You're amused. Why?"

"Because… It's ironic that you're the person I'd want to have around if my flat were being burglarized or I was being mugged in Soho, but I would never call you to watch my cat as I'd be afraid you wouldn't realize cats need to be fed. Does that make sense?"

He shifted in his seat. "John has told me I'm ignorant and I'll admit, I have my certain areas of expertise and the rest of this is…" He swirled his fingers around near his ear.

"It's zero or one hundred."

"Yes. That." He pointed in my direction.

"I don't want you to think that I'm not impressed. It's just an observation."

"You're impressed?"

"I mean, yeah. Of course." Objectively I didn't see how one could dismiss his skills.

"I'm used to 'annoying', 'crazy', 'creep'. 'Impressive' is… Welcomed. And deserved." He grinned smugly.

I shook my head as we drove through Paddington along the basin. One of my favorite areas in London was its Little Venice, a series of tiny canals inhabited by house boats and surrounded by greenery and restaurants.

"I had my eighteenth birthday party here," I pointed towards the canals. "I rented a little boat and all of my friends wore party hats. We rowed around drinking gin and tonics and listening to music. Spice Girls, of course." He listened to me as I reminisced. I remembered that young, unsure girl fondly. Hair nearly down to her waist with an affinity for crop tops (short lived, thankfully) and always with a trusty, oversized denim jacket. I wasn't sure if he was interested in what I was saying, but I decided to share nonetheless.

I found a decent parking spot on a residential street in Notting Hill and stretched my arms in the sun as I got out of the car. I closed my eyes and lifted my face towards the sky for a few moments. I opened one eye and squinted to see Sherlock standing right in front of me.

"What?" I asked, knowing full well I looked slightly ridiculous. He continued to stare at me with crossed arms.

"Your flat has adequate windows. You couldn't understand." I huffed as I pulled a reusable shopping bag over my shoulder. "All right. We'll go to the book shop after the market?"

"And what, you'll carry your plants around the shop?"

"Fair point. We'll go there first."

"I can't figure out why you moved into 221C, of all the flats in London you could have picked. You could be living in one of these." He gestured incredulously to a lovely brick row house. "But you settled for mildew and darkness." He grimaced.

I could tell it bothered him that he couldn't fully grasp the concept of something. "I can't totally explain it myself." I smiled. "Mrs. Hudson is an old family friend, first of all, so when she mentioned she had a vacancy I said I would take it. I suppose in that moment I just knew that's where I was going to be right now, regardless of how gloomy or drab."

I stopped in my tracks and grabbed Sherlock's elbow. "Oh no." I muttered morosely.

"What?" He asked interestedly. I pointed to a garden across the street where a stray Julia Roberts cutout was lying abandoned in the grass and looking rather pathetic.

"Poor thing." I said, feigning pity.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept walking.

"What do you need to get from the bookshop anyway?" I asked, catching back up to him.

"Not sure." He responded flatly.

"Seriously?"

"What plants are you planning on buying?"

"I'm… not sure." I said as he grinned knowingly while staring at the sidewalk.

As we turned the corner off the residential street we could see the crowds lining the market down the way. Portobello Road Market was always hustling and bustling, and it was rare that I didn't find myself shoulder to shoulder with others while walking down the stall and shop lined street. I heard Sherlock groan next to me. I turned and smiled; though he wasn't physically dragging his feet, everything about his body language screamed "I'm stubborn."

"Do you know how many people would kill to be in Notting Hill on a summer afternoon?" I questioned.

"People have resorted to killing for far more pointless reasons and somehow less gain."

"You're not wrong." I frowned slightly.

"Though that would mean a case, which we're in desperate need of."

"You haven't had one since Surrey?"

"No." He exasperatedly said, sticking out both hands in a gesture of frustration, "Summer is historically when people are even more brainless and senseless and resort to carrying out mysterious crimes in excess, but that doesn't seem to be the case because we have no case."

I watched him curiously as he vented. "I do admire that you're like a shark."

"What?" It was his turn to look at me curiously.

"Some die if they stop swimming." I shrugged.

"Brace yourself," Sherlock said out of the blue. I looked at his eyes, following his gaze into the hoards of people down the block. "That woman's going to approach us about something."

I squinted curiously into the crowd, noticing a woman holding a gigantic bouquet of flowers in the crook of her elbow and clutching a paper bag.

"Oh! Hi, June! All right?" I asked loudly across the street.

"Doing lovely, thanks." The petite blonde said as she waved while continuing on her way. "New boyfriend?" She mouthed dramatically, holding a hand next to her mouth in a pathetic attempt to be discreet. I laughed and shook my head as I returned her wave in passing.

"Sorry." I mumbled as Sherlock cleared his throat, "She's an old classmate, always been a busy body, clearly…" I honestly wasn't sure if I had romantic feelings for Sherlock, I hadn't allowed myself to think about it, but I couldn't ignore or dampen the butterflies I felt in my stomach at the mention of the idea.

As we ventured onto the market's main drag Sherlock stuck to my side, constantly bumping into my shoulder. My eyes wandered over passersby, vendors and their eclectic array of goods. There was a stand filled with ornate kettles and antique silver wear, copper pots and pans. There was a man with an impressive mustache and an even more impressive spread of luxury top hats, next to his stand a small older woman with wild grey curls standing in a small sea of large vases.

I tugged on Sherlock's sleeve and pointed to a cafe across the street. "Coffee." I smiled.

"You really need more caffeine?" He inquired.

"Always." I shrugged.

I had never been to this cafe before, but it smelled as divine as one would expect. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and buttery pastries was always welcomed. Sherlock tinkered with a rack of coffee mugs as I placed my order. I waited next to the counter, thanking the heavily tattooed and glasses wearing barista as he handed me the goods. I joined Sherlock next to the mugs and handed him his own to go cup. He blinked in surprise.

"Here." I said plainly, encouraging him to take the coffee. "Black with two sugars. John mentioned it once, so it's his fault if that's wrong." I finished while he continued to look surprised as he grasped a hand around the drink.

"There's a bookshop just down the block." I said before taking a sip of my very strong iced latte as Sherlock followed me out of the coffee shop. It was a bit strange to feel in charge of the situation and the afternoon. I thought back to the case and how I felt like a lost puppy following Sherlock around Surrey, except now there was no looming murder or murderer or poison or snakes, just coffee and plants and homemade pottery.

We made our way down the street, Sherlock offering commentary about the authenticity (or lack-thereof) of products based on the vendor manning the stall, also providing observations of passersby and their lives.

"He's been sleeping on the couch." Sherlock said quietly, with raised brows and a slight point in the direction of a man with bags under his eyes and tussled hair. I realized the gentleman had slightly tensed shoulders, presumably resulting from a sore back, which I wouldn't have noticed unless otherwise pointed out to me. "Undoubtedly on his way to that flower stand."

We stepped to the side of the sidewalk under a restaurant's awning to watch for a few more moments, Sherlock making a satisfied clicking noise with his teeth when the man of course planted his feet in front of the bouquets. I watched as he ran a stressed hand through his hair for probably the umpteenth time that day, pointing at a luscious pink and orange bouquet. I observed for a few more seconds, lost in thought as Sherlock walked briskly towards the bookshop. I mentally shook myself out of a slight stupor and followed in his tracks after he stepped inside. I took in the bookshop's displays facing the street; the charmingly lopsided bay windows housed new releases, literary posters and children's books next to homely plushies. I half smiled at the Frog and Toad toys seated next to each other. I pushed into the shop, a bell above the door ringing as I instantly felt at home surrounded by the faint aroma of old wood and books.

"Hello." A grey haired man smiled at me from behind the front desk, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a pen in the other as he marked some sort of manuscript. "Looking for anything in particular today, madam?"

"Just going to let myself be surprised. Is this all right?" I pointed to my latte, unsure if he'd want drinks inside and certain that Sherlock wouldn't have asked.

He responded by lifting his own cup of tea and nodding his head.

"Cheers." I peered around a few aisles until I found Sherlock. I decided not to join him as he appeared deep in thought whilst crouched and eyeing selections on the bottom shelf, so I walked past and quickly offered, "I'll be upstairs."

I had been to this bookshop a number of times with my parents, my father especially. I reckoned I had been to every bookshop worth visiting in London with him. There was a small upstairs that housed a large assortment of used books. I usually came away with a history book or a humorously horrible coffee table book. The old stairs made like the shop's old hardwood floors and creaked as I ventured upwards. The attic was much hotter than the downstairs and I instantly felt like I had entered into some sort of bizarre dream state. The small windows overlooking the road below were cranked open, the paper star lanterns hanging in front of them swayed in the mellow breeze. A radio was quietly playing classical music through a comforting layer of static. I walked over to a tub of books near the window and began digging.

After a few minutes I hadn't found anything good or bad enough to ironically buy, so I stood and stuck my head out of the window to view the market below. A woman seemed to be arguing with a bike rider across the way. I watched as a man walked in front of the bookshop whilst all too casually holding a French horn. I turned away from the live entertainment and ventured into an aisle of more used books. A middle aged woman in a very smart blazer and glasses was flipping through a book on yoga before lifting her eyes to give me a friendly smile. She seemed to give me a double-take before returning to her reading. I figured I had something on my face and reached for a Cary Grant biography and a book on Ancient Greek Pottery. I resumed my place next to the open windows to bask in the sun and the breeze while I flipped through pages. My senses were dulled in the heavy air of the attic room so I was surprised to look up and see Sherlock had joined me, a paper bag tucked under his arm.

"You've checked out already?"

"A keen observation." He replied sarcastically, stepping forward to stare out the window next to me. I turned to join him in watching the action below.

"What did you find?" I asked while glancing at a cat in an adjacent window. The paper bag crinkled as he flexed his arm tighter around the parcel and looked at me with an impish glint in his eyes. For some reason he wasn't going to tell me. I shook my head and decided to put my books back, the woman in the aisle giving me another prolonged glance as I did so. As I turned around she placed a gentle hand on my upper arm, causing me to turn around surprisedly.

"I… I'm so sorry for your loss." She looked at me with sincerity in her eyes and I felt my chest tighten and cheeks go red. It wasn't entirely uncommon for me to be recognized as my mother's daughter. The bombing had of course been international news and the local coverage had, for good reason, been obnoxious. Though sympathetic recognition had happened quite a number of times, the uncanny feeling never lessened.

"Thank you." I replied earnestly as the woman pulled me into a deep hug and then quickly walked down the stairs with her eyes downcast. I hadn't immediately realized that I had become misty eyed at the gesture, and wiped away any precarious tears on my bottom lashes as I stood rigidly unmoving in the aisle. I felt Sherlock's presence behind me but I didn't turn around.

"That… happens?" He questioned incredulously. Emotionally charged exchanges struck me as far beyond his wheelhouse.

"Yeah, it's fine. I'm fine. I'm used to it." I offered quickly. I was moved by the woman's sweetness and was thankful for her kindness, aware that I would mentally return to moments like this for strength for the rest of my days. Even though it was overwhelmingly heartwarming, I still felt uncomfortable. Hugging a woman nearly my mother's age also reminded me of what would forever be lost to me.

"You're all right, yes?" He asked uncomfortably.

"Of course." I finally turned around and breathed deeply, doing my best to smile and hold my head high. "It's just strange, as you could imagine. Lovely, but strange."

"Sounds like you." He said in his casual tone that would sound nearly insulting if you didn't know him, though the implication caught me off guard.

A tilted my head to clarify in near shock, "Lovely?"

"Strange. Very strange." He offered swiftly, "So it doesn't surprise me that that's what you'd attract. Though, I mean, there are pleasant enough aspects to you that accompany the strangeness, I suppose one could objectively say." He said, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck as he likely realised he didn't want to totally hurt my feelings.

"Nearly a compliment." I said, turning around and heading for the stairs. I didn't let on that I thought it was funny, also finding some humour in making him uncomfortable.

"I mean, that's not to say you're entirely unpleasant." He offered again, stomping down the stairs behind me. The man at the front desk lifted his cup of tea in farewell as I waved and we pushed back into the bustling market.

"Your flattery knows no bounds, Sherlock Holmes." He continued to look unsettled as we bumped through the crowd, feeling as though we were in the human equivalent of a pinball machine.

"You're recognised often?"

"Enough. I suppose I sealed the deal after appearing in a few television interviews."

Sherlock made a noise that registered as… frustrated? Angry? Aggressively victorious? I hadn't a clue. He clenched his fist and said, "How did I not remember?"

"What? Why does it matter?"

"I'm obviously not prone to forgetting details like that. The fact that I didn't recall watching you on television without prompt is highly agitating." He replied with a concerned hand on his forehead. "I can't afford that sort of slip up." I looked at him for a few moments longer, my mind racing.

"Agitating? How troubling for you," I said brusquely, "You should be thankful that's something you're separate from, that you're able to casually forget. I envy you, sincerely."

"Well-"

"Not everything is a game," I continued while looking straight ahead and keeping my voice low as we walked, "Game. Noun. A form of play or sport. Life is a sensitive gamble, if anything. When you're dealing with crime you're dealing with lives, not pawns or players. The most striking example of game and playful competition surrounding you that I've been able to perceive is just that of you against yourself."

"You're saying this as though it's entirely negative."

I thought for a few moments and then responded earnestly, "I suppose it's not. I'll commend the drive and self betterment it encourages."

"My mind is its own battleground, yes, and this is not something I can turn off. Believe me, I spent years trying to quiet it. What I have the power to turn off is sensitivity, how I choose to perceive crimes, cases, l-lives," He stuttered, "If I bore the curse of empathy I wouldn't be able to pursue justice in the way that I do. Emotions are noise. Loud, needless, noise." He said hurriedly, taking a final swig of his coffee and crumpling the empty container with one hand. At this point I had nearly tuned out our busy surroundings as I locked into Sherlock's words.

"Isn't there insight to be found in connecting with people? Being in touch with your feelings and those of others as you work a case or just move through life? You really believe that numbing emotions to such an extent can be healthy?" I frowned in contemplation, "Speaking as someone that has personal experience."

"Everything to gain, nothing to lose." He offered confidently as his eyes searched the crowd until glancing into mine as I stared uncertainly.

"That's so… sad." I said straightforwardly, shrugging.

"Quite the opposite."

"You think?" I stopped in my tracks and asked dubiously.

"I know." He said, grabbing both of my shoulders and turning me around so I was facing a lush array of flowers and greenery that I had been unaware of.

The previous conversation was dismissed as I took a quick stroll around the plants, admiring tall cacti and luscious ferns.

"This one's lovely." I crouched in front of a small tree with hearty, wide leaves concentrated towards the top. The stout stall owner walked my way and crossed his arms next to me, unintentionally mimicking Sherlock's crossed arms and tilted head to my left.

"She is, isn't she." The man said with a delightfully thick Welsh accent, "A fiddle leaf fig tree, that is." He said with a point of a soil covered finger.

"Does it need a lot of sun?"

"Just lots of indirect light. Move it in front of a window every now and again I'd say."

"Perfect." I smiled, envisioning the tree between the window and fireplace in my sitting room.

I paid for the fig tree and a thriving little string of pearls plant and was thankful when the man offered to hold the plants so we could drive closer and not have to carry them all the way back to the car.

"Let's cut over." I said as we began our walk back, gesturing in the direction of more residential streets. I wiped the back of my hand over my lightly perspiring forehead as we strolled into the glaring afternoon sun.

"Too crowded?" Sherlock smirked in condescension, his parcel free arm swinging with every step.

I shook my head as we turned the corner and sought a sliver of shade under a colourful line of row houses.

"I'm assuming this is the last time?" I offered.

"Hm?" Sherlock grunted.

"That you ask me for a ride." I replied with a glance in his direction.

I could have sworn there was a trace of a grin on Sherlock's face. "Unfortunately, I don't predict that to be the case. As I'd stated, I believe it's of importance that you get your money's worth in frequent use of the vehicle to make a foolish decision slightly less foolish. Slightly."

"I see. Then it's only logical you give my door a knock the next time you two wrangle a case?" I asked with more confidence in my tone than I felt.

"Likely." He said firmly, not lifting his gaze from the pavement.

Outwardly I remained collected and quiet, but inwardly I was bursting with excitement. I tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear as it blew in the hot breeze, basking in the sun and thrill that was a sense of adventure and purpose.


	7. Disruption

The drive back home from Notting Hill was a bit more quiet as we both sat and savoured in the cold blast of car air conditioning. My plants were secure in the back seat, Sherlock rolling his eyes as I'd chosen to buckle them in with seat belts as a precaution.

"Was John in today?" I questioned, surprised that he hadn't communicated with either of us during the long afternoon.

"No. He's off with some woman, apparently." Sherlock grumbled.

"Really?" I asked surprisedly, "Way to go, John! Good for him." I lightly smacked the steering wheel for emphasis.

Sherlock grunted indifferently.

"Come on, a new relationship? Or… whatever it is? That's exciting, Sherlock. At least he's not as bored as you are." I said as the detective oozed an aura of annoyance at his roommate's absence and newly filled free time.

"I think he finally realised you weren't attainable." Sherlock grinned with a trace of mischievousness. I quickly gathered that he was trying to get back at his friend in a way, so I brushed it off as a lie and shook my head.

"No way." I replied with a scrunched nose as I pulled in front of 221. Though he had attempted to be overly suave upon our first meeting, that demeanor had quickly dropped and he never came across as even remotely flirtatious. If John had actually been interested, I almost felt it necessary to give him a few pointers down the line.

"Yes… way?" Sherlock said, the phrase not sounding natural coming out of his mouth as he shut the car door. "The fact that you were so blind to his… feelings for you is quite frankly impressive but mostly concerning." The word "feelings" also sounded entirely unnatural coming from him.

"Though I'd trust your instincts in a litany of departments, 'feelings' is not one of them." I replied as I grabbed the string of pearls plant and hugged the large pot to my chest. "He laid on a bit of charm at first but that isn't anything to overthink." I followed Sherlock to the front door and was a bit miffed he didn't hold it open for me, giving it a kick as I had no free hands. I was then surprised to see he was busy unlocking my front door.

"You have a key to my flat?" I asked in surprise. "Since when?"

He jingled the keys between his thumb and pointer finger in response. "You're officially involved in casework. You're bound to make enemies or be targeted. If I have reason to suspect you're somehow in danger whilst at home I won't have to go through the needless faff of breaking down your door."

I stared at him with a slightly open mouth, never ceasing to be amazed by how he operated socially and what he got up to in his spare time. An action of this sort was likely just scratching the surface. My stomach flipped slightly as I also took a mental note of the sentence "you're bound to make enemies or be targeted."

"Just don't try this with any future neighbours." I said, shaking my head. "You're lucky I think highly enough of your character." I thanked him as he actually held this door open for me. "Do I get a key to your flat then?"

"We only lock it when we leave, so unless you're on a mission to snoop…" He tossed his bookshop parcel onto my counter.

"I'd be afraid of what I'd find," I said as I squatted with the pot, setting the plant on the floor in front of the window until I had a few minutes to hang it up somewhere, "John gave me a rundown of everything he's found in the fridge."

"Oh, was this alone time with John?" Sherlock mocked, following me back out the door as I went to retrieve the fig tree.

"It was a text!" I smiled and dramatically declared while turning around and walking backwards, my hair catching in the hot summer wind blowing at my back as I stared at Sherlock. "Come off it."

"You didn't have to listen to him go on and on about you right after you moved in. Him hyping himself up just to ask if you needed help with carrying all of your groceries or furniture."

"Wish he were here right now then." I said flatly, my arms shaking as I lifted the even heavier fig tree out of the back seat. I was surprised when Sherlock swiftly grabbed the pot out of my grasp, watching as his slim but strong forearms flexed as he carried it with more ease than I could. I jogged ahead to hold the door open for him, quickly putting my hands over his and lowering the pot as I realized the top half would have hit the doorframe.

"Well, if he wanted to pursue me he did an abysmal job." This statement seemed to tickle Sherlock. He let out a rare and proper laugh as he set the plant between the fireplace and the window after I pointed in that direction. I smiled with my hands on my hips.

"Do you want something to drink? Sparkling water, wine, juice…" I trailed off as I opened my fridge door. "I can assure you I have nothing suspicious or morbid in here. Maybe that's a disappointment…" I muttered, biting my bottom lip as my eyes searched each shelf.

I turned and stared at him, leaning against the fridge as I waited for an answer. He shifted in place in the living room, for some reason seemingly unsure of what to do.

"I'm going to the bathroom. Feel free to grab something or head back upstairs." I said with a little wave of my hand as I walked down the hallway.

I looked at myself in the mirror, realizing I had gotten quite a bit of sun on my face. The sparse smattering of freckles on my nose were slightly more pronounced, my skin more tanned in the v-shaped neckline of my dress. A few minutes later I washed my hands and stepped back out into the hallway, slightly surprised but glad to see Sherlock was still there, leaning against the wall and staring out the window at Baker Street with a perspiring glass bottle of sparkling water in hand.

"Waiting for John to come home, are we?" I jested, deciding to step on the counter so I could grab one of the bottles of wine I had placed on top of the cabinets. "Don't judge." I said softly, feeling his curious and possibly judgmental gaze behind me.

"For the wine or for standing on your countertop?"

"Both, I suppose." I said distractedly, pulling open drawers and searching for a wine opener.

"I think it's important to gain the perspective of one's kitchen from on top of the counter. I also find it valuable to sit upside-down on a chair, though the concept of upside down is subjective." Sherlock said, joining me in the kitchen while pulling his keys out of his pocket again and confidently jamming one into the cork before popping it out. My eyes widened in appreciation and slight awe at how quickly he made work of opening it. As I poured myself a glass I heard the building's front door open followed by footsteps, internally questioning if it was Mrs. Hudson or John.

"It's John. Hear the limp?" Sherlock asked brusquely as if reading my mind, opening my door and turning around to head back into the living room without saying anything or even glancing into the hallway.

"John? Sherlock and I are in here." I said loudly, with a pointed glance in Sherlock's direction for leaving me hanging.

I grinned as John popped his head in and waved while smiling, "Hello." He was clearly in an especially jovial mood, and I anticipated this would only set Sherlock off more for some reason. Sherlock didn't turn around, he just continued to sit on the couch facing away from the door, taking an aggressive swig of his water.

"Doing well?" I asked, knowingly grinning.

"Yeah." He said, dragging out the single syllable and stretching, looking pleased with himself before looking between us and pausing mid stretch to point at Sherlock and then myself. "What have you two been up to?" I realized we might look slightly suspect, especially with the wine glass in my hand thrown into the mix.

"We went to Portobello Road Market because I wanted plants," I gestured to my living room's new additions near the window and then to the brown paper bag on the counter next to John, "and Sherlock wanted to go to a bookshop."

John reached for the bag and attempted to peek inside before Sherlock quickly leapt up and ran over to snatch it, holding it above John's head as John rolled his eyes.

"Really? Is it that big of a deal, Sherlock?" He huffed.

"No, not really." Sherlock said flatly, walking back to the couch.

"He didn't let me look either." I said, taking another sip of wine. "Do you want some?" I asked, pointing to my glass.

John glanced at Sherlock before clapping once and responding with, "It's nearly dark. Why not?"

I took a seat on the armchair next to the fireplace, studying Sherlock's demeanor. He shot a glance my way and I didn't shy or look away, I just tilted my head slightly before I turned my focus to John again.

"What did you get up to today?" I interrogated, my lips stretching into a smile behind my glass.

"Er- well," John rubbed a hand on the back of his neck.

"Now he's being shy. See?" Sherlock said, not looking at me but tilting his bottle in my direction and raising his eyebrows.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked while taking a seat on the other end of the couch, letting his head fall back as he tilted it towards the ceiling and closed his eyes in slight annoyance.

"I don't even know," I said quickly, "I'm happy for you, John. Is there another date in your future?"

"Hopefully." He offered, smiling wistfully and taking a gulp from his glass.

I smiled as I listened to John describe the woman he was seeing. His high spirits were infectious, at least to me. Not so much to Sherlock. During a lull in the conversation I got up to refill John and I's glasses before walking over to the fridge to grab a bowl of cut fruit and some sliced crusty bread on the counter. A random spread but something to snack on nonetheless. After standing I realised that I was already feeling a mental fuzz from the tall glass of wine I had thrown back. When I set everything on the table I noticed my cat had quickly made himself comfortable in my armchair, so I took a seat on the bricks in front of the fireplace. After a few moments Sherlock wordlessly shifted to the arm of the couch. I didn't move at first, surprised by the courteous action. John looked nearly flabbergasted.

"Are you going to sit or not?" Sherlock asked pointedly, rhythmically tapping his fingers on his San Pellegrino.

"There it is." John held up a pointer finger with a tight lipped and frustrated grin, "Almost a thoroughly nice gesture."

"I'll take it." I said, settling into the couch that was still warm from its previous occupant. On the coffee table in front of us there was an empty coffee mug leftover from the morning, instantly reminding me of our bizarre morning spent with Dr. Roylott.

"Oh, John! The new blog post was good. I especially loved how adamant you were about the fact that you slept on the floor." I said. Sherlock snorted next to me, even though I wasn't trying to poke fun.

"Thanks." He said, genuinely smiling this time. "I should have asked if you wanted to be included, I just assumed you wouldn't mind…"

"Quite all right. I even sent a link to my father yesterday so you've got yourself a new subscriber." I raised my glass in a sort of salute, but watched as some form of realisation swept across John's face and he started chuckling to himself as I grew slightly concerned.

"That's right… Evelyn, your dad's a writer." John said with a hand on my shoulder, as though this was groundbreaking information.

"And?"

"I think I know why Sherlock didn't show us what he bought at the bookshop today." John continued to laugh, taking pleasure in making his friend squirm. I gasped quietly and grinned as I looked at Sherlock, quickly getting up on my knees to be nearly at eye level with him though he was fixated on the hardwood floor.

"That has to be true." I said, continuing to grin as he got off the couch and started walking swiftly out of the room. "It's totally fair, Sherlock. You shouldn't be embarrassed." I offered, following him into the hallway as he remained stone faced.

"Why would I be embarrassed? How are you so certain that John's correct? I have my fair share of secrets, projects, studies… Emphasis on the word 'secret.'"

"It makes sense," I persisted as I stayed on his heels going up the stairs, "I'll admit I've searched you on the internet, I've read the papers. It's the same thing, you know. It's only natural to want to gain some sort of insight into new acquaintances, especially neighbours. And especially neighbours that have a key to your flat or vice-versa."

We had reached the top of the stairs and he opened the door of his flat, standing on the other side of the door frame as we stared at each other in intimidatingly close proximity for a few more seconds before he closed it. I listened but didn't hear the click of a lock, the only assurance I needed that he wasn't entirely shutting John and I out.

x

I awoke and rubbed my warm and well rested face into my pillow, stretching each limb dramatically. I realized this was the first night in a long while that I hadn't awoken from a night terror, or stared at the dark ceiling with intense waves of anxiety, or been rocked from sleep by outside noises or, very specifically, suspicious shadows on the other side of my door (I had my fingers crossed that this was a one time occurence). I had no plans for the day but decided to get ready anyway in hopes that it would inspire some sort of agenda or motivation. I ran my hands over the clothes on my rack and settled on a sage green boiler suit, appreciating its practicality and comfortingly structured fabric. I had just finished eating my toast when my flat shook with a horrendously loud popping noise from upstairs. A gunshot.

I stood up in confusion for a few seconds before grabbing a serrated knife from a nearby drawer. I ran into the hallway, ducking and looking up the stairs when another shot rang out. I put a finger in one ear and braced myself as I ran up the stairs, Sherlock's statement about being targeted for working cases playing over and over in my head. I whipped Sherlock's door open as yet another shot rocked my eardrums. I fully opened my eyes after squinting them in response to the noise, lowering my knife as I realised Sherlock was the one holding the gun. I stood in disbelief as my heart continued to race.

"Sherlock!" I yelled. I heard footfalls coming up the stairs behind me, raising my pathetic little knife again until I turned and saw John running towards us with fingers in his ears.

"Can someone tell me what the hell is going on in here?" John demanded, looking down at my apparent weapon of choice and then at Sherlock lying upside down on a chair with a gun in hand.

"Trust me, I don't have the slightest clue." I said shakily, turning to look back in Sherlock's direction.

"Bored. I'm bored." Sherlock groaned.

"I thought you had both been killed." I said, staring at the ground with a hand on my forehead before Sherlock tossed his pistol into his non dominant hand and fired another shot, tossing it back once more and firing yet another.

"Damnit, Sherlock!" John shouted, stepping forward and grabbing the hot pistol from Sherlock's hand before locking it in a nearby safe.

"I can't believe we both ran up here…" John reflected, looking at me as we both questioned our sanity, and probably both realised how devoted we were to this peculiar and temperamental man. I let myself sink to the floor, sliding the knife across the hardwood and away from me as I lightly pressed the palms of my hands into my eyes and sighed.

"Who wants tea?" I asked with my head between my knees, thinking that sounded like as good a tonic as any for my frazzled morning nerves.

John responded with a "yes" and Sherlock raised an arm in response, letting it flop off the back of the armchair underneath him. As much as I wanted to view him as pathetic in this state; bare feet, silk robe, pajamas, morning hair, currently pitiful attitude and all, I couldn't entirely.

"Why were you out front?" I asked John curiously as Sherlock continued to gripe and moan from his chair in angst and boredom.

"Phone call," He responded slightly bashfully, "Sarah."

"Good phone call?" I asked, trying and failing to judge his expression before adding, "Er, bad phone call? You know people should really learn how to do that in person these days." I finished, grabbing a pack of teabags from on top of the microwave.

"She did not break up with me, thank you very much." John said defensively as Sherlock looked faintly amused at this exchange, "Not that we're a 'thing'," He added with air quotes, "but we might no longer be anything after she heard me yell something about my roommate and a gun as shots were being fired in the background. Do we have anything to eat?" He asked quickly and aggressively, throwing both hands in the air out of frustration.

I watched as he opened the fridge and then immediately slammed it shut, closing his eyes and keeping them closed as he asked, "Was that a head?"

"Yes." Sherlock responded, migrating from the chair to the couch.

"In the fridge?" He clarified in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Why?" I asked incredulously. "Is it… is it bundled up? In plastic?"

"Nope. No. Not at all. Very bare." John repeated, shaking his own head.

"I got it from Bart's."

"Is that supposed to make it better?" John asked, smacking a fist on the fridge.

"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." He replied nonchalantly.

I poured hot water from the kettle into each teacup, my hands still shaking.

"I'm going to Speedy's. What do you want? A breakfast sandwich?" I quickly asked John, who nodded with his pointer finger and thumb pressed on the bridge of his noise.

I walked to stand over Sherlock who had his legs kicked over the arm of the sofa as he lied down and stared back up at me.

"You. Do you want anything?" I inquired, turning my attention to the smiley face on the wall that he had expertly sent bullets through. I walked over to it and ran my hand across the scorched holes, admiring his aim but refusing to compliment anything about it in fear of giving him even an ounce of encouragement.

"Just tea for me."

"It's on the counter." I responded quietly, closing the door and heading downstairs. I collected myself as I ran into my flat and grabbed my wallet, crossing my fingers that no one nearby had called the police. I assumed that 221 had some sort of flag within Scotland Yard, a flag that specified "it's easier to just not get involved at this address."

I walked cautiously into Speedy's, expecting everyone to have either evacuated or be discussing the fact that they'd just heard five gunshots, though everything seemed business as usual. There was loud coffee shop jazz music playing and pots and pans clanging in the back as retirees congregated during the weekday morning to discuss grandchildren and local sports and London news. I waved at the university aged girl behind the counter and placed a to go order for two breakfast sandwiches and a small assortment of sweet and savory pastries to tide John over for the day (pastries that wouldn't require refrigeration).

I left with my goods, surprised to see John exiting the front door of our building in a huff, annoyedly tugging on the heavy lapels of his coat.

"Where are you going?" I asked, pulling his sandwich out of the paper bag. He offered his thanks as he grabbed it with both hands, as if it were the greatest gift he'd received.

"My girl- er, my friend's. I just need to get out of there. You can babysit today." He said, waving a hand in the direction of his flat in dismissal. I tilted my head and frowned slightly. "Sorry." He said sincerely, sticking a hand up in farewell as he walked away.

I stepped into 221 only to see Mrs. Hudson closing the door to the boys' flat in as much of a huff as John.

"It's as if he needs supervision at all times," She started, "not that supervision would stop him. Firing a gun at the wall. That's a new one… I shouldn't be surprised anymore but here we are. I love him dearly, but I'm going to need to bring 'round a repair man and a priest next time… Hi, Evelyn, dear." She waved as she left the building without even looking in my direction. I stood with my hand still up as if to wave, clenching my fingers and letting my arm fall to my side. I was amazed that Sherlock had inspired nearly everyone in his circle to leave his flat in an agitated state within the last ten minutes.

I made my way upstairs, holding the box of pastries above my head. "These are mostly for John," I said as I nudged open the cracked door with my foot, "and please just leave them out on the counter." I set them on the dining room table he was standing next to, joining him as he stared at the smiley face on the wall, though I was mostly observing him out of curiosity. There were days where I was certain I had made advances in figuring out even a fraction of his habits and personality, then there were days like today. I was learning that nothing was predictable in 221B.

"Your tea is still steeping, Sherlock."

"Is it?" He asked quietly, finally turning his attention away from the wall and towards me.

In a fraction of a second I felt the ground below us shudder as the windows next to us blew out. Simultaneously, a deafening boom felt as though it consumed all of my senses as we were knocked to the ground. Before my body hit the hardwood I reached forward and grabbed whatever part of Sherlock my hands could find in that meager and panicked sliver of time. I wasn't sure of anything as we hit the floor.

x

At first it was as though I was feeling my body secondhand, through a haze and from a distance. Over the course of a few moments I became increasingly aware of the ache in my head as it rested on the floor, the ache in my right shoulder, a stinging on the back of my arm, my throbbing lower lip, a tender right knee. I also became aware of the fact that there was a hand holding the back of my head and an arm limply encircling my waist. I attempted to flex my fingers and realized my hands were surrounded by smooth fabric. I slowly and reluctantly opened my eyes, afraid to cement whatever had happened as reality.

Sherlock was lying next to me, nearly on top of me as my hands were clenching onto the fabric of his light blue silk robe, now covered in a thin blanket of an ambiguous grey powder. I lifted my hands up, thankful to observe that there wasn't a scratch on them. I turned to lay more on my side, noticing that Sherlock didn't appear to be outwardly injured, only unconscious as I had been. The fact that I couldn't even hear sirens yet helped me determine that we had only been out for a few seconds.

"Sherlock." I said, surprised that my voice came out so quietly. "Sherlock!" I repeated, more confidently this time, putting a tender hand on his shoulder and squeezing lightly. I was afraid to hurt him further if he was injured. I breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes opened, feeling the fingers he had resting around my waist twitch slightly. Realisation crept across his features as he stared at me whilst slowly removing his arm from underneath me and his hand from my hair to run it through his own dark and messy locks. I focused on breathing in and out as I tried my best to suppress any thoughts of the British Museum. After all, I didn't even know if this had been a bomb or some sort of freak accident. Not that it would have made a huge difference. It had the same effect.

"Are you all right?" I asked as we both sat up, my heart racing as tears of panic that I couldn't control welled in my eyes.

"Your lip." He replied, roughly grabbing my chin with his hand and squinting his eyes.

"Is it cut?" I asked through smushed cheeks from his grip, watching him closely as he analyzed my features.

"Yes," He observed, "and your forehead is going to ache for the next couple of days."

"You look fine, I think." I stated after he pulled his hand away. We looked at each other before he started laughing. I didn't expect it, but I soon joined in. The tears that had been precariously balancing on my lash line fell, but I wiped them away as I continued to smile. I lifted my left arm to wipe them from my left cheek when I felt a stinging tug in my upper arm. I sucked air in through my teeth as I looked down at my grimy skin, seeing a small but sizable enough shard of glass sticking out of it. I grimaced as I pinched and pulled it out. We both lifted our heads up towards the now nonexistent windows as we finally heard sirens in the distance. I inhaled the chilled air pouring in from outside. I tried moving my feet, the glass around my boots crunching, but I felt no pain. Sherlock came out of this quite lucky, with only a few tiny cuts on his knuckles and feet.

My eyes widened as I thought about the extent of the damage. "My cat." I said to myself. "My cat!" I scrambled up, slipping slightly on the glass and strewn papers, taking a second to mourn the breakfast pastries that were scattered across the floor. It felt as though my heart was in my throat, my breath quickening with every step as I ran down the stairs. I was relieved to see that the damage didn't seem to extend much further beyond Sherlock's door, but I couldn't be sure until I entered my flat. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes as I held onto the doorknob with both hands, whipping it open to see my cat sitting on the counter and staring at me expectantly. I ran over and scooped him up. I officially let the tears that I had suppressed fall freely. I gulped in air as I lowered myself to the floor, ignoring the small stream of blood trickling down towards my elbow as the fire department and law enforcement started pouring in through the building's front door.


	8. Chapter 8

After minutes of insisting that I was fine, a group of first responders finally convinced me it was imperative that they checked me over and scoped out my flat for any other potential hazards or explosives. I looked up the stairs as they pulled me out of the front door, wishing luck to whichever medics or officers were stuck with the task of persuading Sherlock to do the same.

As we stepped outside I wasn't surprised, but still a bit perturbed by the amount of people that had already gathered to see what all the commotion had been. Children were pointing at me, hushed by their parents as officers were attempting to block off and secure our section of the street. I made brief eye contact with the young woman I recognised for having just taken my order at Speedy's, also being led by medics to one of the service vehicles. I craned my neck to peer around the small crowd and trucks with their lights flashing, noticing damage to most of the buildings around us. In my panic a few minutes prior I hadn't clocked that my windows had also been blown out, bricks littering the sidewalk in front of my flat. I searched for my car and was thankful it had been parked a few less destructed buildings down after I'd gone out to pick up takeaway the evening before.

They pulled me into the back of an ambulance and began poking and prodding at me, asking for personal details as they sprayed something on my lip and applied a skin adhesive to close up the cut. Though the small wound on my arm had bled a bit, it was too small to require any stitches. I turned down their offer to take me to the nearest hospital, maintaining that I didn't think I had any sort of head trauma. I blinked as a gloved hand was waved in front of my face.

"Sorry?" I questioned in confusion.

"I asked if you have any medical history." The very maternal EMT asked, placing the same hand on my knee.

I stared at the ambulance's closed doors in front of me and shook my head, "Honestly, I'm fine. I've felt worse after crashing a bike."

"We've seen our fair share of nasty bike crashes, so I believe you." She said, snapping her glove and fussing with metal contraptions and little plastic packages on a sterile tray. "You're under no obligation to go to the hospital, all right? I just want to make sure they've given you the all clear to reenter the building." She finished, giving my leg one more comforting pat.

I nodded once in acknowledgement before she swiftly left through the ambulance's back doors. I sat and pressed a finger onto my right knee, feeling a strange sense of comfort in its dull soreness and wondering if it was already bruised. I listened to the cacophony of unintelligible voices, sirens, and doors slamming shut in the long stretch of minutes that I waited for her to return. It felt like an eternity, and I was tempted to leave and just walk down Baker Street, away from the mess.

"All right, love? You can come out when you're ready. Careful when you step down." She finally said, popping her head in.

I slid off the gurney and pulled out my hair elastic, watching as a few bits of glass fell onto the ambulance floor. When I exited I squinted as I was met with a few camera flashes. A pushy brunette immediately pulled up to my side, beckoning for her camera crew to follow her.

"How are you fairing?" She asked, her darkly drawn on eyebrows feigning intense concern.

"Fine." I offered plainly.

"Any word on what happened?" She questioned, shoving the microphone closer to my face.

"No."

"Do you feel as though this was a targeted occurrence?"

"We'll find out." I replied distractedly as I looked around, my head starting to pound with all of the commotion.

I walked away as the reporter tried to probe me for more information, following an officer as he walked inside 221. I stopped in front of the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, relieved to realize that it appeared undamaged and that she hadn't yet returned after leaving 221B in a huff. I drifted back into my flat, grateful to see that everyone had already cleared out, likely to be tending to the buildings neighboring ours. I closed my curtains, even though there weren't any windows behind them. I stared blankly at my fig tree as it laid on its side in front of the fireplace before tilting it back into place. I immediately stripped myself of my clothing to jump into the shower, not even looking in the mirror. I was surprisingly calm, no longer feeling tearful or panicked, just eager to return to normalcy as quickly as possible.

I sat on the floor of the shower for a long time as I let the hot water pour over me, massaging the sore spot on my forehead and hoping that my father would be very out of tune with the news of London. I wasn't about to personally inform him of this "accident" anytime soon. He'd likely insist on paying for me to go back to therapy, which I'd tried before but gave up on quickly. After stepping out of the shower I finally faced the mirror and took in my appearance. I didn't look as worse for wear as I had anticipated. Though my lip was cut it wasn't too swollen, and my forehead only looked slightly tender above my brow. I threw on a black skirt and a black jumper as the weather was unseasonably cold again. I had no plans to venture outside, but had to account for the major draft my flat was now presented with.

I frowned as I dug through drawers, finally finding my headphones which I chucked on. I cranked some music up until it masked the intensifying commotion outside. I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed a broom, feeling as though I was floating in a sort of dream state while I focused on sweeping up the glass and debris lightly coating my hardwood floor. I wasn't certain how long I tended to this, but the ultra focused tunnel vision I had in the moment made it impossible to tell. I didn't stop until I was obsessively certain that every scrap had been accounted for.

I let myself fall back onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, removing my headphones and listening to the blasts of fire hoses, sirens, worried voices, and horns honking as stubborn Londoners still wanted to drive down Baker Street. I turned my head as the beam of light on my far wall was eclipsed, realizing that someone outside was hammering something over the space where my window should be. I closed my eyes and mentally blocked out all of the outside noise, willing myself to shut down and sleep away as much of the afternoon ahead of me as I could.

x

I reckoned I had slept for a few hours, realizing that I awoke in the same unrelaxed position I had fallen asleep in. The throbbing in my head was now nearly nonexistent, which I was thankful for. I sat up, closed my eyes and tuned into my senses to hear if the racket outside had lessened. It hadn't. Less sirens, but more voices. I sat in front of my nightstand, turning on an old lamp that cast a mellow, orange glow throughout the room. I ran a hand over my warm cheeks and eyes that were slightly puffy from sleep. My hair was especially voluminous after sleeping on it following a shower. I checked my mobile and realized I had received a few concerned texts from close friends and an old boyfriend after they had apparently seen me on the news. I responded to most of them and thankfully noticed nothing from my father, though I still decided to give him a routine phone call.

"Evelyn?"

"Hi, Dad. All right?"

"Doing well enough. I recently joined a book club."

"Do you speak enough French for that?" I smiled slightly.

"I suppose I don't." He responded, and I was able to hear the smile in his voice as well.

"What do you think I should make for dinner tonight?" I asked, realizing it was already after five. "Something old, something new?"

"Something British."

"Getting the potatoes out now, then."

"Atta girl. How's everything in London?" He inquired.

"It's… London." I sighed.

We continued catching up as I preheated the oven and grabbed ingredients, saying goodbye and feeling as though the conversation was a comforting breath of fresh air. I was reminded that the world was much larger than this morning. I took my time and carefully assembled a vegetarian shepherd's pie after preparing the required vegetables, finding a sense of zen in being able to focus on creating something, anything. Even though it had been a long day, my appetite was lacking. I analyzed my sofa for glass shards once more and sat, staring at the now clean floor as I ate in contemplative silence. I put my ear to the front door after doing the dishes, making sure all was mostly quiet in the hallway. I slid on some heavy black loafers and decided to head upstairs to make sure that all was as well as it could be in 221B.

I walked up the stairs and stuck my hand out to turn the doorknob, but took a small, startled step backwards when the door opened from the other side. Before me was a sharply dressed middle aged man with a smug but friendly enough grin.

"Hello." I offered.

"Mycroft Holmes." He stated, reaching out a hand. I shook it firmly, trying to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned a Mycroft.

"Evelyn Bennett."

"I know," He said confidently, stepping to the side and gesturing for me to join him in the boys' flat, "I read the blog."

Sherlock was seated in his armchair, the floor beneath him still littered with glass, paper, and breakfast pastries. He looked completely normal and unperturbed, wearing a plum colored shirt and focusing all of his attention on plucking the strings of his violin. I wasn't totally convinced he was even aware of my presence.

"My brother assured me that you're both well?" Mycroft questioned, staring at a croissant as he squished part of it with his expensive looking leather shoe. I took a mental note of the new information: Sherlock has a brother and plays the violin.

"Yes," I responded a bit too quickly, "any news on what actually happened?" I asked, kicking aside a few papers as I leaned against John's chair.

"Gas leak, apparently." Sherlock offered with the pluck of a string as Mycroft nodded. I frowned as I turned the idea over in my head. It made sense, sure, but something about that answer didn't totally satisfy me.

"Very unlucky. Especially after just making a home for yourself." Mycroft said, clasping his hands together behind his back.

"I suppose I'd prefer for it to happen whilst I'm still in a state of upheaval. I think I'd be more vexed if I were completely settled." I replied, staring at the floor as I tried to make out the faint ink on a note under my shoe. "Did you get roped into going outside too?"

"No." Sherlock grinned to himself, plucking two strings this time.

"I dare say at this point Sherlock has developed a reputation amongst all medical personnel and law enforcement within the greater London area. I believe they may want to deal with him even less than he does with them, which is saying a great deal." Mycroft chuckled as Sherlock stared blankly across the room.

"Do you know if it's just buildings that received the brunt of the damage?" I asked, fearing the worst for the residents in our neighborhood and thinking about the many older diners I saw at Speedy's that morning.

"Yes-yes-yes," Mycroft waved in dismissal as I felt myself finally relax, "it appears there were no injuries greater than a scraped knee or split lip." He finished with a knowing smirk. I nodded as I let myself smile as well, though I couldn't feel the expression reach my eyes just yet.

"Thanks. I've been in the dark all day. I'm grateful someone has answers." I replied while lightly tugging at a loose thread on John's chair.

"Ah, and he often possesses too many of them." Sherlock remarked, still not looking up from his violin.

"I work for the British Government," Mycroft clarified, raising his chin and staring into the dark London sky, "Sherlock may resent my… ever being in the know, but he does benefit from it, as much as he'd loathe to admit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft continued, "Speaking of benefiting from one another, I will be so bold as to confess that presently you could be of great aid and service to me-"

"No." Sherlock interjected.

"And the nation. Your skills are called for. There's no need to be obstinate before I've even asked-"

"Butter me up all you'd like, but I've been busy." Sherlock stated, though Mycroft didn't seem any less determined. I knew Sherlock was lying, but wondered why as I looked between him and the wall he'd shot up out of boredom that morning. He caught my gaze before dropping it and plucked another tune.

"Too busy? Really?" Mycroft inquired with a tilted head, "Didn't realize such a threshold existed for you, Sherlock."

"You're presenting a case?" I probed, crossing my arms.

"I'm presenting a case." Mycroft confirmed, picking up a folder and drumming his fingers against it.

"Don't want it. Can't do it." Sherlock glared at the ceiling.

I heard a door open and close in the distance followed by footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs. I found myself tensing inwardly, even though I of course had a strong inclination as to who it was. The door whipped open, and I watched as John's panicked eyes swept across the room.

"Hi, John." I said plainly. Sherlock gave a small wave with his violin bow.

John's mouth was agape as he ran a tense hand through his hair before turning his attention to us, "Are you okay?"

I shrugged as he took a few steps closer.

"Evelyn, I saw a clip of you on the news. Holy…" He said, looking around the room again before inquiring once more as he grabbed both of my arms and asked slowly, "You're all right?"

"We're fine."

"It was just a gas leak." Sherlock shrugged.

"Hello, John." Mycroft smiled and waved.

"Yeah, hi." John said through an exhale before the room fell into a few seconds of silence.

"Well… how was your date?" I asked.

"Standard." John huffed, walking over to the destroyed windows and absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sarah's well then?" Sherlock asked as John rolled his eyes in response.

"There are more pressing matters." He said with a few ounces of pointed sass as he motioned around the room.

"How right you are, John, such as…" Mycroft took advantage of the conversational segue and flipped open the folder he was holding, reading, "Andrew West, known as 'Westie' to his friends." I walked over to Mycroft's side to glimpse the inside of the folder as he continued on, "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

I hadn't realized I'd made a face as I looked at one of the crime scene photos, only becoming self aware when John gave a snort of laughter. I couldn't help but reciprocate it for a moment, trying to suppress anymore insensitive giggles and feeling guilty before I put a hand in front of his face, "And it's not considered suicide?" I questioned, reverence for the situation returning as I flipped through more pictures from the scene.

"The kicker is that The Ministry of Defense is working on a new missile defense system; the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called."

"And?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"The plans for it were on a memory stick." Mycroft continued as John chortled and Sherlock looked amused.

"Clever." John scoffed.

"It's not the only copy, but it is missing."

"It's secret, yes? Sensitive?" Sherlock asked, letting his head fall back.

"Oh, of course," Mycroft stated with a one handed shrug, "and we believe West to have taken it. You can imagine what would happen if this piece of technology were to fall into the wrong hands."

Sherlock stood up, his interest levels and emotions unable to be read. He bent down and picked up a brioche bun, carefully flipping it round in his long fingers as the gears in his head turned. We all watched curiously as we waited on a serious response, only for Sherlock to suddenly hurl the pastry out of the glassless window.

"For God's sake." John exasperatedly said, giving up and walking into the kitchen to fill up a cup with tap water.

"Just felt the urge, really."

"This isn't just a request, Sherlock." Mycroft declared.

"No?" He asked sarcastically.

Mycroft tugged at the bottom of his suit jacket and inhaled deeply, walking to the front door. "No," He returned commandingly, "it's not. I don't want to hover. Don't make me." Sherlock's glare intensified as Mycroft stepped across the threshold onto the top step. "Until next time, Evelyn. John. Good luck with this one." He finished with a quick wave and a glance in Sherlock's direction. I gathered that by "this one" he meant his brother, not the case.

"Night." I smiled as widely as my lip would allow and John waved back whilst chugging his glass of water.

"You lied. Why?" I asked once Mycroft had left, walking past Sherlock and over to the windows, sticking my head out and peering into the starless night. I blinked in surprise as another pastry was thrown and whooshed over my head. John and I exchanged glances as we both realized brothers would always be brothers, regardless of age or government position, apparently.

"Sibling rivalry." John stated while shaking his head, picking up the croissant Mycroft had half squashed. He gave me an apologetic look, even though the breakfast items I'd purchased earlier had transcended being edible, before hurling it out of the window. I looked between them before finding a jam doughnut and tossing it into oblivion (or, more likely, onto a neighbor's rooftop).

"As an unfortunate only child, I can't help but think I would have been better off with a healthy dose of competition at home. What does Mycroft do, anyways?" I inquired, kicking debris aside as I searched for another sweet projectile.

"The more appropriate question," Sherlock grunted as he unearthed a pain au chocolat and handed it to me, "is what doesn't he do."

"Sherlock says 'he is the government.'" John replied with air quotes as I chucked the pastry as hard as I physically could, brushing my hands together and genuinely smiling afterwards. I added another mental note after the Mycroft and violin tidbits: throwing a stale and grimy dessert into the ether, though not a sustainable form of therapy, is a form of therapy nonetheless.

"Don't think we'll be getting more breakfast from Speedy's anytime soon," John grimaced, "Say, did you watch the news?"

"I didn't have to, John, it's been live outside of 221C for hours." My comment elicited a laugh from Sherlock.

"Yeah, but… The studios, their edits. They're kind of using you, you know." John said hesitantly.

"Really?" I asked with raised brows. I assumed they had just included my clip as it was, though my relationship with the news outlets at this point was troubled and complex. I was also certain I didn't curry any favors by being so short with the reporter earlier that day.

"I mean, it wasn't that bad," John tried to assure me, "they just mentioned your name, and the museum, and… everything."

"Oh god," I frustratedly sighed as I took a seat in a dining room table chair, "I can't say I didn't expect it. As long as I'm not named in any headlines. That's all I can ask for at this point…" I trailed off quietly, trying to not think about the media coverage, pressing my palms over my eyelids in a physical attempt to push any looming negative thoughts away. I was pleasantly surprised to realize I was hardly capable of feeling more upset or anxious after the events of that day. I was oddly accepting. What harm could anything do to me at this point? I thought. Especially the newspapers or BBC. I removed my hands from my face when I heard a phone ring, opening my eyes as Sherlock whipped his mobile out of his pocket.

"Sherlock Holmes." He stated brusquely. I watched as his expression shifted, growing more curious and intense, "Of course. How could I refuse?" He grinned victoriously (though with a certain hint of darkness) and made quick strides towards the door. I stood up, though John and I didn't immediately follow.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"That was Lestrade."

"He's an investigator with New Scotland Yard," John added to fill me in, "he's asking for you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a hand on the doorknob, pausing for a few awkward seconds before adding, "I don't have to go alone, you know. I don't fancy catching a cab either." I tried to hide my excitement as John and I followed him down the stairs.

I reached into my flat to grab a light jacket, keys, and my wallet as I heard Mrs. Hudson's flat door open.

"Heavens. Strange day, wasn't it?"

"That's an accurate description." I said, pulling the jacket sleeves over my arms as I stepped back into the hallway, "Your flat's in good shape, I take it?"

"Not a hair out of place. Well, aside from the hairs that are quite normally out of place." She laughed and took a sip of wine. I found it amusing that she didn't seem at all concerned with the state of things. Rather, I assumed she would be enthusiastic about the prospect of us receiving new windows and a bit of a facelift at no cost to any of us.

"We're on our way to Scotland Yard." Sherlock explained, tapping a foot.

"And if you want to enter our flat, just… actually, don't enter our flat, Mrs. H. Better to just wait." John added with a nod and forced grin.

"Whatever you say, dear. Do see if you can get some of those randoms outside to clear away." She stated before closing the door with a grin.

I braced myself and stood as close to John's back as I could as we pushed open the front door and made our way onto Baker Street. The crowds had settled down a tinge, but there were still plenty of first responders tending to the damage and keeping the area secure. The officer stationed in front of our building gave us a polite nod as we passed. Sherlock's strides were so long and brisk that I had to take two quick steps for each one of his. In my attempt to keep my gaze averted I nearly ran into him as we stopped in front of my car.

"Sorry," I mumbled, unlocking the doors so we could all pile in. There was a very light layer of dust or ash on the vehicle but no damage.

"John, you've finally been promoted to the front seat. How exciting." I jested sarcastically as John took a seat next to me.

"I've earned it today."

"Sleeping on Sarah's sofa? Strenuous." Sherlock remarked, setting John off on a tangent about 'stress'. I tuned out their bickering as I concentrated on navigating us out of the hubbub congesting the stretch of city blocks surrounding ours.

"I'm driving to New Scotland Yard, right?" I interjected as I waved at the officer that helped shift people and roadblocks to guide us out of the area.

"Yeah, just head towards Big Ben." John replied, dropping the needless argument.

"I assume this call means you'll no longer be plagued with boredom?" I asked, looking at Sherlock in the mirror. I watched as he rubbed his lapel between his fingers and stared at the buildings that flitted past his window.

"I could very well be bored while pursuing a case, but at least I won't be bored in the flat. It's dependent on complexity, as always."

"If he's calling you in at this hour it's bound to be good." John yawned.

"Did Lestrade give you any specifics?" I inquired, glancing again in the rearview as Sherlock shook his head, "no." I did a surprised double take when I realised he was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

I turned to John with an incredulous look, "Is this normal?"

John peered into the backseat and made a noise of disbelief as Sherlock pulled a tightly folded white shirt out of his coat pocket. "You couldn't have done this before we left?"

"Does it matter?"

"After the day we've had, honestly, no." I replied, rolling down my window for some fresh air as we began driving past the luscious green mass that was Hyde Park.

"Er- hello, it's cold?" Sherlock protested.

"Not to step on your toes, detective, but using my powers of observation, I observe that you don't have a shirt on. I suspect the weather wouldn't be an issue if you were fully clothed." I replied, refusing to crank up the window as John chuckled. Sherlock remained wordless but faintly smiled to himself as he changed into the white top and pulled his coat back on.

We weaved through traffic and passed by historical Westminster landmarks, judging the rowdy university aged kids stumbling around outside of the pubs, kicking traffic cones, and yelling for the sake of yelling. As we neared New Scotland Yard, John pointed me in the direction of a quiet parking garage. Even though it was later in the evening, on street parking was always a trying task within any sort of immediate radius of Big Ben.

"Eight quid for an hour? Those bastards…" John mumbled as he began to dig around in his pocket for preemptive payment.

"Don't worry about it," I remarked as I grabbed a ticket, "just surprise me with a coffee one of these mornings… Or two, if we're here for awhile."

I surveyed the dark garage as I slowly pulled into a spot, looking slightly askance at the uncomfortably blue toned overhead lights as they flickered.

"Ominous place you've led us to." I observed.

"Seems quite on brand for my year thus far." John grimaced.

Sherlock began snapping his fingers impatiently, "Eight pounds an hour." He sang before stepping out, slamming his door, and swiftly walking in the direction of the River Thames. John sighed as he whipped off his seatbelt and leapt to catch up. In my haste to follow, the contents of my shallow coat pocket spilled out into the car and onto the pavement. I groaned as I got on my knees to grab my keys that had fallen under the vehicle and scooped loose coins off of the seat.

I brushed a few waves out of my eyes as I fully stood up and turned towards the car park exit, Sherlock and John out of sight and well on their hurried way to New Scotland Yard. I walked as briskly as I could to catch up, planning on waiting outside with my lack of clearance if they made it there before I did. I breathed in deeply as I stepped nearer to the exit of the concrete structure, appreciating more refreshing air that didn't smell of oil and rubber. I admired the glistening river and jolted slightly as someone stepped in front of me at the threshold of the car park's exit. It was a middle aged man with black hair and a bottle of something clutched in his ring adorned hand. At a glance he looked put together, but upon a few more seconds of taking in his appearance I noticed specks of grime on his glasses and how poorly his suit fit his frame. Something about him was uncanny, even aside from the unwelcomed surprise of him blocking my path.

"Excuse me," I said, walking to his left and taking a step back with a glare as he blocked me again.

"Where d'you fink you're goin'?" He asked through a thick cockney accent, leaning an elbow against the side of the entry.

"That clearly doesn't concern you." I replied, not making eye contact.

"Oh, no plans then? D'you want some?" He breathily asked, leaning closer as I took an aggressive step back.

"What do you think?"

"I fink… we should go back to your car and get out of here." I inwardly cursed as he pointed towards the few vehicles in the lot, becoming very aware that he was in a position to do something destructive to my car (and/or others') if I left.

"Not very tempting as that's not even my car." I lied, tapping my foot out of growing anxiety and eagerness to escape the situation.

He took off his glasses and squinted, "Then what are you doin' in here?"

"Once again, doesn't concern you." I said, ducking under the arm he had leaning against the wall. I walked quickly without looking back, nervous to now see that there wasn't anyone hanging out on this block during the evening hour, very opposite from the daytime. I exhaled sharply as I heard his footsteps behind me.

"Oy!"

"Bold of you when Scotland Yard is right there." I said sharply before he had a chance to say anything else. He grabbed my wrist and I whipped it away, picking up the pace.

"Conversating isn't illegal, love." He sneered.

"That's not even a word."

"What did you say to me?" He belligerently asked. I winced as he grabbed and pulled my bandaged upper arm this time, shoving me against the trunk of a nearby tree.

"Conversating isn't a word." I repeated, giving him a hard shove with my other hand.

"Fink you can lay a hand on me, do you?" He asked loudly, grabbing a fistful of fabric on the back of my coat and pulling me backwards again after I'd taken a few steps. I fought to fully be able to turn around, smacking him across the face and sending his glasses flying as he held his cheek and stumbled. I stared in near wonder at my stinging hand for a moment, surprised but incredibly pleased with myself for standing my ground. I turned to start running but startled when I saw another figure emerge from the street, instinctively closing my eyes before hearing a few heavy thumps and the smash of a glass bottle on the pavement. When I opened my eyes, Sherlock was standing next to me and running a hand through his now marginally unkempt hair. I looked between him and the creep, who was now lying flat and unconscious on the ground.

Sherlock quickly placed a guiding hand on the small of my back and began to push me quite forcefully in the direction of the police station, though I took a few stumbling steps as my head remained turned towards the man lying pathetically under the tree. When I looked at Sherlock he appeared thoroughly agitated, breathing heavily and unblinkingly glaring in the direction we were walking in. I assumed he was upset about the hold up interfering with his work.

"Sorry. You didn't have to come back. I was just planning on waiting outside." I apologised.

"What?" He nearly spat, still glaring at the street laid out in front of us, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not."

"You are." He pushed for us to walk even faster.

"How so?"

"You may think that I'm void of emotion or- or a conscience-"

"I mean, you've said so yourself in a few more words than that."

"Ah yes, unbothered and comfortable to sit idly by while you're physically and verbally harassed in a car park." He finally looked away from the street and at me.

"I'd like to think I held my own." I shrugged, though my knees were still shaking from the confrontation.

"That was a fine slap… and I always appreciate a grammatical correction." He commended, giving me some credit.

"How long were you watching this play out?" I asked with knitted brows.

"Do you think I was gleefully observing from the opposite tree?" He rolled his eyes and I cracked a smile. "Why are you smiling?"

"Thank you," I said earnestly, giving him a sideways glance, "even though I had it covered."

He shook his head and sighed. He allowed himself to relax, slowing our pace as he finally removed the guiding hand from my back. "That was some necessary catharsis, however nonessential I was." He said, holding his hand up and rotating it a bit under the glow of a street lamp. "Knee to the stomach, palms to the ears, fist to the temple..."

"Happy you were around." I concluded, my cheeks betraying me and growing slightly pink at the simple sincerity of the statement. "John's at Scotland Yard?"

"No, he went for a quick trip 'round on The Eye, actually." Sherlock said sarcastically, nodding towards the ferris wheel across the river.

"All right, all right. Fair." I embraced the comfortable silence that followed while taking in the spectacles and charmingly lit architecture that lined the Thames. We made it to the station moments later, and I followed Sherlock through multiple hallways and doors. We passed by mostly deserted cubicles, though he received and returned a couple of mild glares from the cubicles that weren't.

"You're popular." I muttered as we turned a corner.

"Clearly." He leaned over and mumbled in return.

I pressed my warm palms onto my cold cheeks as we entered through the final door, smiling when I spotted John.

"Get sidetracked?" He asked.

"You could say that." I replied, running a hand through my wind whipped hair, "Inspector Lestrade?" I asked a rather stern looking man, though he cracked a pleasant smile when he stuck a hand out.

"Yeah, call me Greg if you're feeling informal. Evelyn?"

"Yes. Just the designated driver, really." I grinned politely in return.

"All right, Sherlock?" He asked, though Sherlock just let his head loll to the side as he waited for a brief. Lestrade clapped his hands once and lightly ground his palms together before continuing, "Yeah, well… You like funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones?"

"Obviously."

"Then this should tickle your fancy. Follow me, you lot." Lestrade said, pointing a finger towards what I assumed to be his office as we tailed him.

"That explosion?" He prompted after closing the door, sitting back in a desk chair and crossing his arms.

"The gas leak, yes, go on."

"No, no," He said with raised brows, clearly pleased to provide information to Sherlock that Sherlock didn't already have, "made to look like one."

"What?" John asked in shock.

"Damn." I said, sounding nearly impressed as my eyes widened at the truth of the situation. I couldn't say I was surprised. I'd had a pit in my stomach all day, and though the thought of someone planting a bomb outside of our building was enough to make me want to hightail it to France to live with my father, the pit in my stomach seemed to finally dissolve. Of course it was another bomb smeared onto the span of my life, but this time I felt as though we were on track to… something. I looked between the three of them and felt a sense of promise, following Sherlock's gaze to the envelope addressed to him on Lestrade's desk.

I felt my heart racing as I softly urged, "What are you waiting for?"

He looked dubious as he gingerly picked up the white paper, "Is it-"

"We ran some tests. It won't bite." Lestrade assured.

Sherlock pinched two corners and examined the parcel closely as he walked across the room towards a lamp, holding it above the light and leaning in closer.

"Nice stationary. Bohemian." He noted of his name scrolled on the envelope.

"What?" Lestrade quipped.

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"Nope."

"She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold. Iridium nib." He enlightened us further. I rested my chin on my fist in intrigue, and would have been content to listen to his observational ramblings well into dawn. Sherlock finally walked back to Lestrade's desk and swiftly ripped open the envelope with a letter opener, his mouth falling open in disbelief. He delicately reached in and pulled out a pink mobile phone.

"I know that phone," John remarked in wonder, "that's the pink phone!"

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade questioned as my mouth opened in recognition as well.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's meant to look like-" He paused, "You read the blog?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock incredulously, "'Course I read his blog! We all do. Do you really not know that the earth goes around the sun?"

I muffled my laughter in my jumper sleeve as Sherlock tugged at his shirt collar in mild annoyance, shooting a dirty look in John's direction.

"Some entries do read as though you've forgotten their public." I said, holding back anymore giggles.

John tilted his head and grinned in comedic displeasure.

"I have to admit, John, my favorite entry is the one titled 'How'." I said in a serious tone as Lestrade snickered in recognition.

"'How do I delete this?'" Lestrade quoted, grinning as he watched John cringe.

"To be fair," he defended with a finger in the air, "deletion is not as self explanatory as you'd imagine."

We all turned our attention back to Sherlock as the phone had turned on, alerting us that there was one new message. When played it was just the ever familiar beeps of the Greenwich Time Signal.

"Riveting." John remarked, stretching his arms as he leaned back into a chair, though Sherlock's eyes widened at a new discovery.

"What?" I asked as Lestrade walked over to his side, squinting at whatever was on the screen.

"Load of help this is." He shook his head, "What are they playing at?"

I grew nervous as I watched Sherlock's concern grow by the second. He nearly hesitated in turning the phone towards John and I, lowering it and running a hand through his hair before raising it for our viewing pleasure. Once I saw the screen it was as though I could feel my heart beating in my ears. I couldn't find any words. I heard John swear next to me as he stepped closer to the phone, looking as horrified and perplexed as I felt.

"Come on then, what am I missing?" Lestrade annoyedly questioned.

"That's a picture of my flat," I said slowly, unable to remove my eyes from the picture, "The windows are boarded up, that was taken today." I noticed as my heart beat faster and I felt as though I was on the cusp of dissociating. Nothing in my flat looked out of order, which almost made it more upsetting.

"It's a warning." Sherlock stated, making intense eye contact.

"How do you know?" I asked, trying to mask the desperation in my voice.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips of the Greenwich Time Signal. They're warning us it's gonna happen again."

I clenched my fists together and let my nails dig into my palms, reminding myself to stay grounded. I immediately thought of my cat, though felt some sort of strange assurance that no harm was going to be brought upon him tonight. I felt a reassuring hand on my arm and turned to see John, though the look in his eyes was far from reassuring. I had a feeling mine held the same tense worry.

"What are they warning us is going to happen again?" John asked fearfully as we hurried out of the room. I heard Lestrade stumbling behind me as we broke into a light jog.

"What do you think?" Sherlock nearly shouted as he walked backwards, slapping an ID card onto a strip next to the door.

"Just didn't want to believe it." John said with a nervous hand on his stomach. "You're staying with us tonight, Evelyn. Or with Mrs. Hudson, but I'm not sure what use she'd be after happy hour. She's a tough old thing, but you know what I mean." John trailed off, already out of breath as we'd picked up the pace.

"Since we're carpooling with you," I asked Lestrade over my shoulder, "do I have to pay the car park toll?"

"That's not how that works… but no, just floor it this time. I'll take care of it later." He huffed as we ran through the last corridor before stepping back out into the brisk London night.


	9. Chapter 9

As we neared the car park once again, we allowed our deliberate jog to become more leisurely for John's benefit. I very well supposed the thought of sprinting along the Thames from Scotland Yard in the cover of darkness and in the company of investigators would sound grand on paper, though I quickly realised the reality was laced with a hint of cringe and a dash of embarrassment. A born and bred Londoner, it was ingrained in me to blend in, to not make eye contact on the tube, and to not draw any attention on the street.

Sherlock was on a call with Mrs. Hudson, ensuring that she was all right while also inquiring as to whether or not she had witnessed anything peculiar. I squinted as someone whistled from what appeared to be a pile of rubbish bags, but clicked my tongue in annoyance as the man Sherlock had knocked unconscious emerged from a nearby alleyway, a hand cradling one of his cheeks as he stumbled our way.

"Ah, back again-" The man started in a ranting tone before Sherlock hung up the phone and swiftly kicked up a foot to the man's chest to push him into the rubbish sacks.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John huffed.

"Did I miss something?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"Warranted vigilantism, trust me." I assured them as Sherlock adjusted his lapels before pointing at me over his shoulder in a gesture of agreement.

I jogged the final distance to the car, recognising how badly my hands were shaking as I grabbed for my keys, hastily starting the car before the men piled in. Sherlock reclaimed his usual spot in shotgun, grabbing the handle on the bottom of his seat and pushing himself back into John's knees.

"No you don't." Said John, fully prepared this time as he braced both hands on the back and pushed it back into place.

"Shotgun privileges can be revoked." I offered distractedly as I whipped out of the parking spot. I made unsure eye contact with Lestrade in the rearview as I slowed past the paying station, only for him to shake his head and give the side of the driver's seat a reassuring punch.

"I'll buy a monthly pass next time, I promise."

"Yeah, yeah…" He shook his head but reluctantly smiled to himself.

"Any new alerts?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head without checking, though he agitatedly flexed the hand that was resting on his thigh.

I fidgeted and tapped my fingers anxiously on the wheel, rolling my window down as we neared St. James park.

"Hey, I know that was violating but everything's going to be all right." John leaned forward and offered reassuringly, though he sounded unsure himself, "You're brave, you're witty, and you're not alone." He assured, holding up three fingers after listing the affirmations.

I looked at him appreciatively, "Thanks, John, but I'm fine, really." I shifted in my seat as Sherlock gave me a skeptical look, "Okay, I'm not; it's just if anything happened to my cat I'm moving to France."

"The cat will be fine," Sherlock crossed his arms, "the image they sent serves as enough of a warning, enough of a threat. Don't forget they bombed us this morning-"

"Totally slipped my mind." I interjected sarcastically.

"Animal abuse would, quite literally, be overkill at this point in the game. They're obviously calculated and are taking great care in meaningfully stringing us along," Sherlock continued, turning the mobile phone over in his fingers, "They possess too much taste for such a cheap and dramatic move in whatever narrative they're planning on playing out."

I didn't respond immediately, but shot him a prolonged glance as I merged into a different lane. A sense of awe and comfort briefly but thoroughly washed over me as I surveyed the detective.

"A bomb isn't dramatic enough?" I asked, smirking ever so slightly so he knew I found a sort of dark humour in the statement.

"What's it like sharing a building with these two anyways?" Lestrade inquired, interrupting my thoughts, "Miserable?"

"If you only knew." I replied.

"I'm thankful I don't."

"I will say, I'm never not surprised."

"What, ballistics at breakfast time not your cup of tea?" John jested in an entirely pointed and annoyed tone.

"Should I be concerned I've just mentally deemed that as the least disturbing part of my day? Don't even worry about it." I stated with a sigh as Lestrade opened his mouth to inquire. He shut it and nodded.

"Holy hell, that was this morning." John groaned, pressing himself back into his seat with wide eyes. "That feels like last week."

I yawned as I turned the distant feeling breakfast over in my head, squinting an eye in pain as a pang went through the cut on my lip I had nearly forgotten about. I pressed my tongue against the small wound as London's nightlife passed us by. I watched as a gaggle of women in fancy dresses laughed obnoxiously as they had their arms supportively laced around a wobbly friend. I furrowed my brows as I tried to imagine feeling as carefree as they looked, and felt hollow when I realised I wasn't sure if I was capable of feeling entirely untroubled. I froze as I made eye contact with Sherlock, pulling the tip of my tongue back into my mouth and wiping my lip with the back of my hand.

The rest of the drive was filled with Lestrade probing for more 221 Baker St. stories and playful dirt on Sherlock. I was happy to fill him in, but didn't seem to relish in it as much as John, who went on a minutes long tangent about sleep schedules and curious kitchen smells as Sherlock remained in his head, staring out of the window. When we arrived, he protested as I parked a block and a half down from our building.

"I'm not taking any chances." I shrugged as I walked backwards, watching until the men were all out of the car before locking the doors and hurriedly jogging towards our front door. Sherlock leapt in front of me to open it and headed in first, his coat catching the air behind him as he briskly made his way down the hallway.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled, jingling his keys. "You're alive, yes?"

"Still here." She remarked from behind her door, stepping out after I heard her undo multiple locks.

"Glad to hear it." I said, giving her a one armed hug that she lovingly returned. I held my breath as Sherlock gently ran his palm over the front of my door.

"I haven't seen your place since you moved in, Evelyn." Mrs. Hudson remarked, removing her arm from my side and putting both hands on her hips.

"How about we wait until I have natural light again," I offered with a slight frown as I joined the men in front of the entrance to my flat, "Though I suppose it's always been gloomy regardless."

John and I exchanged dubious looks as the lock clicked and the door swung open. I sighed as I heard my cat jump off of something in my bedroom and crouched down as he trotted towards us.

"Told you." Sherlock stated.

"You think someone picked the lock?" I asked, repressing waves of paranoia.

"Possibly…"

I scooped up the cat before stepping inside my home and flipping on a light, though I didn't get far before I stopped in my tracks and tilted my head.

"Those trainers aren't mine." I said curiously, stepping slowly towards the random shoes that had been placed next to my sofa, their toes pointed towards the door.

"He's a bomber, remember." John worriedly stated as I felt resistance from a hand pulling the back of my coat. Sherlock took heed of John's words for a brief moment but continued to walk towards the bizarre clue.

"I know you suggested I stay in your flat tonight, but shouldn't someone… be here? Just in case something of note happens?" I wondered.

"We'll have to draws sticks if that's the case." John grimaced, as Sherlock ever so slowly leaned down towards the shoes, placing his gloved hands on the floor as his gaze traveled over every centimeter of the trainers.

Lestrade swore in surprise and my cat jumped out of my arms as a mobile rang. Sherlock startled as well, jumping back from the shoes and taking a deep breath before removing the pink phone from his pocket. He held it up for us to see that someone was calling from a blocked number before answering and setting it to speaker.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked quietly.

My palms went clammy in discomfort as I immediately noticed whoever was on the other end was breathing as though they were crying.

"Hello s-sexy." A woman wept.

"What the-?" Mouthed Lestrade as he, John, and I glanced at each other in surprise.

"Who is this?" Sherlock continued without missing a beat.

"I've sent you a little puzzle, just to say 'hi.'" She stated between halting sobs.

"Who are you? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying… I'm typing… and this stupid bitch is reading it out." My eyes widened and I flattened my palms against my skirt as I felt chills run up and down my arms. Sherlock mumbled something to himself.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Nothing… It's just that I've been expecting this for some time."

"Twenty four hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock. Or else I'm going to be so naughty." The woman finished with another cry before hanging up.

Sherlock stared at the inactive phone screen for a few more moments before setting the mobile down on my counter and staring at the floor in deep contemplation.

You could hear a pin drop before Lestrade spoke up, "You know something we don't, do you?"

"Always." Sherlock condescended as Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean."

"Let's bag these up. We'll bring them to Bart's in the morning." Sherlock gestured to the trainers, ignoring Lestrade as he brushed past us and headed towards his flat for an evidence bag.

I watched him disgruntedly as he made his way down the hall, finally allowing myself to stroll around my flat and ensure that everything was as I had left it.

"Please be careful." John groaned.

"I can assure you I'm not trying to die tonight, John." I replied as I opened the cupboard under my sink and crouched to scope out the dark and damp nooks and crannies.

"Er, lovely place you've got here." Lestrade noted as he hesitantly patted the pillows on the sofa.

"It's seen better days, but thanks. Need a ride whenever you're dismissed?" I asked teasingly, crossing my arms and glancing in the direction of 221B.

Lestrade shook his head and grinned, "I will remind you that he's not my boss. Have to often remind myself, really… I can catch a cab. You lot have had a long enough day."

"You're not wrong." I said as I began making my way down the hallway towards my bedroom, stopping at the threshold and peering in. I nervously picked at the skin around my nails as I stepped inside, half expecting someone to leap out of my closet or bound out from underneath my vanity.

"Oh god." I muttered to myself as I knelt down, saying a silent prayer to whomever was listening as I looked under my bed, relieved to find nothing but a stray sock.

"All right?" I jumped as Sherlock strolled in, waving a crinkly bag.

"I was." I said with a hand over my heart, getting off of my knees and walking over to the closet. I carefully ran my fingers over the clothing and kicked a slightly trembling leg into each corner before joining the boys back in my sitting room.

John and Lestrade were observing with crossed arms as they watched Sherlock seal the evidence bag now containing the old trainers.

"You're still here?" Sherlock asked slowly without a glance in Lestrade's direction, though it was clear who he was referring to.

"Yeah, I'm out." He said, throwing his hands up in annoyance while clearly exerting physical effort in an attempt to control his temper. He briskly walked over and shook my hand, "Evelyn. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. See you soon, I'm sure."

"God willing. See you, John." He offered with a wave as he made quick work of leaving the flat.

"Night!" Sherlock called out, the only response being our front door slamming shut. "Rather rude." He muttered.

"We're calling it a night?" I assumed.

"For now. As I mentioned, we'll analyze these at Bart's first thing tomorrow." He stated with a pat of the bag.

"I don't think I'll be able to stop thinking about that woman." I softly stated as I stared at the wall opposite us, unable to calm my thoughts as I tried to envision a face as panicked as the voice we had heard on the phone.

"You don't have to worry about her."

"I don't?"

"No." He shrugged, looking at me as if I were foolish.

"Unbelievable." I mumbled, shaking my head. "What's the plan for tonight?" I asked John, turning my back to Sherlock, too tired to bicker.

"I reckon… we stick together. Play it safe. That way we're guaranteed to be on the same schedule tomorrow, with the time crunch and all…" He trailed off.

"Sounds like a plan. I'll meet you upstairs then."

"Are you bringing… that?" Sherlock asked, and I turned to see he had a finger extended towards the cat.

"I was planning on letting him spend the night with Mrs. Hudson, actually. I feel like she could use the company." Cats are highly independent creatures, but after the day's intrusion I felt no comfort in leaving him alone.

I closed the door to my room and started the process of getting ready for bed. I had changed into a dark blue silk pajama set patterned with delicate stars embroidered with silver thread. I pulled my dark waves into a haphazard updo and hesitated in turning the bathroom light off, deciding it best to leave it on. After filling Mrs. Hudson in on the evening's events, I left her with the cat and all of his necessities, touched by how excited she was at the prospect of having a furry companion for the night. I also felt at ease with her flat's more elaborate lock system. I would have brought him up to 221B, but this was his designated time for mischief and I didn't entirely trust he wouldn't sneak out of a window and roam around the rooftops or chase mice through the alleyways.

I knocked lightly on the door to 221B before I let myself in, clutching a pillow as I stared at the boys in surprise.

"I didn't expect this!" I stated as I observed the sofa, now complete with sheets, a pillow and a blanket.

"The bare minimum?" John laughed, holding a broom as he swept the floor in his pajamas.

"See? Never not surprised." I repeated my statement from earlier.

"All the glass bits should be out of there." Sherlock offered, referencing the couch by wagging his fingers next to it.

"I suppose I'll find out." I set my pillow onto the makeshift bed and ran downstairs to grab my broom.

We made quick enough work of cleaning the floor, John continuing to mourn the soiled breakfast pastries and the damaged cafe next door as we swept up the occasional leftover crumb. Sherlock made use of himself by holding a rubbish bag out for us. I ran the back of my hand across my forehead as we finished, giving John a light pat on the back.

"We can sleep a bit more soundly now." I remarked, pleased with our work but still thinking about the woman on the other line. I then realized that sleeping soundly was out of the question, though I did feel a great sense of comfort in the current setup.

"Didn't fancy you sleepwalking on broken glass. Otherwise we'd have left it." John joked, yawning.

I finally took a seat on the couch, letting my head fall back as I realized how exhausted I was, even after my long afternoon nap.

"Twenty four hours…" John said slowly, staring at the opposite wall, "Yeah, I'm not getting up before seven. I have enough faith in you, Sherlock." He tried taking a swig of water and missed his mouth as it dribbled down his chin. Sherlock and I both found an excess amount of humor in the situation with thanks to over-tiredness.

I could tell John was also suppressing laughter, though he played it off as though he was aggravated. "For f-… Knock on Sherlock's door if you need anything." He dumped what remained of his half filled glass in the sink, wiping his chin as he slumped off to bed.

Sherlock and I sat in silence for a few seconds, but both startled when my phone vibrated. I held my breath as I looked at my screen, but was relieved and grateful to see an American friend had just sent a picture of their baby. I bit my cheek and set an alarm for seven, sliding my phone a meter away and feeling resentment towards the device in the context of the day.

"You've had something on your mind since this morning and I predicted you would have brought it up by now. You haven't." Sherlock stated abruptly, turning off the main light and taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

My brows came together in thought, realizing that I'd worked to actively repress a nagging theory since that morning, "You're right. Though I assume that 'something' is a thought that's been entertained by both of us."

"Then you're assuming I already know the particulars of this 'something'?" Sherlock questioned, connecting two fingers underneath his chin.

"It isn't exactly obscure. In fact I'd say it's far from far fetched." I replied, scratching at a star on my pajamas.

"Pity, I felt nearly complimented." Sherlock said flatly, turning the tables on a past statement I'd made to him, causing me to break out in a smile.

"I can't help but relate the bomb from this morning to the museum and hope that they're connected, even though I don't think they are. I feel foolish, but I can't shake the notion." I confessed.

"We're on the same page then." Sherlock stated, migrating his fingers from underneath his chin to underneath his nose.

"Does that feel at all probable?"

Sherlock sighed, "I won't discount it… Though I've admittedly been comparing both occurrences all day and I've settled on the fact that the only similarity seems to be the chosen device of destruction."

"True… This case feels much more calculated; motivated by a sort of personal grievance and a- a childhood villain fantasy. I can only describe the driving forces at the museum as destruction and chaos. Nothing about this feels chaotic, and it feels as though the individual behind it wants credit." I frowned in contemplation.

"Mm." Sherlock nodded in agreement as he absentmindedly rubbed his cheek. "I expected you to shut down after this morning."

"So did I, initially, though I quickly realized that at this point I have everything to gain and nothing to lose." I said, leaning back on the arm of the sofa and bringing my knees to my chest, my turn to echo one of Sherlock's past statements and his turn to knowingly smile. Though he was smiling, it was almost as if sorrow flashed across his face, but I brushed it off as my mind playing tricks on me in the room's dim lighting.

"A wise sentiment." Sherlock replied softly.

"Do you plan on sleeping?" I inquired.

"Sleep," Sherlock groaned, flopping backwards, "I resent that it holds so much power." I scrunched my nose curiously at his complaint. "I'm impatiently waiting for the day scientists do away with it."

"Einstein slept ten hours a night," I shrugged, getting up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen, "How do you do it, anyways? I know how much my thoughts are prone to race while lying in bed so I'm sure yours run a marathon."

"It's worse when I'm not working a case. Just last night I was up until four reading about fungi and poisonous moss."

"Riveting."

"Not at all, but it satisfies a need for an intake of knowledge while being information I can mentally toss if need be…. And that need will arise."

"No, not the fungi." I jokingly protested while resuming my spot on the couch and pulling the blanket over my knees. "Shall we test your knowledge?"

"Try me." He grinned mischievously.

"The first use of Ganoderma Lucidum was recorded where?"

"Referred to as 'The Mushroom of Immortality'. Eastern Han Dynasty."

"Hm, extra credit there," I said with a finger on my chin, conjuring up another question,"How could a certain mushroom be of use to aspiring Athenians in fifth century BC?"

"A plate of black truffles could have been exchanged for citizenship, obviously."

"All right, I already give up. You win." I stated, letting myself fully fall back into the sofa and stare at the stray city lights and swirls of mist through the windows. "Fungi as a sleep aid, I think you might be onto something."

"Perhaps we should task our blogger with spreading the word."

"Insomniacs of London; Dr. John Watson here with a litany of mushroom facts." I said wistfully. Sherlock chuckled in response and stood, walking over to the window and lacing his fingers behind his neck as he stared into the night sky.

"Could you imagine ever leaving London?" I asked quietly.

Sherlock sighed and placed his hands on the window sill, crossing his legs as he stuck his head a few centimeters outside, "Honestly, it's pathetic; how much this city has a hold on me. Imagine me in Los Angeles, or- or Sydney."

"You're right, too vibrant. You'd be like a roving British storm cloud. I don't think London could leave you."

"And what of your threats of moving to France? Empty?"

"Of course," I replied plainly, "I couldn't imagine myself anywhere else either, though I do love Edinburgh… If you ever have a case up there, you know whose door to knock on."

"Are you implying you wouldn't be interested in other cases?" Sherlock asked, turning around and crossing his arms as he leaned against the window frame.

"No, I am interested," I said quickly, propping myself up on an elbow and realizing that I sounded too eager, "I mean, no… Er- honestly, at the risky of sounding soppy, I haven't fully articulated how much I've enjoyed living here. This year has been… horrid, as you could imagine, but running around London and Surrey with you and John has brought me more excitement and fulfillment than my tired brain can currently formulate to say. I don't want to impose, or make you think that I'm desperate, but at this point I couldn't imagine spending my days sitting in my little corner of the basement as you two ran past my door day in and day out. Even if it's just driving you to New Scotland Yard or Edinburgh, fingers crossed-" I smirked while staring at the floor, "I'm here if you'll both have me, is all I'm trying to say." I cringed at the honesty, using all of my willpower to not belittle myself or my statement by blurting out never mind, please just don't respond.

Sherlock stood tensely for a few moments before walking to the other side of the room. I watched him curiously before he placed his hand on a doorknob and finally opened his mouth to respond, "At this point… I don't think I'd be satisfied in us running past your door either." Before slipping inside his room.

I stared at the spot where his figure had been for a few seconds longer, fully realizing I was now making a habit of trying to snuff out unruly butterflies. I pulled the blanket under my chin, taking a calming inhale as the sheets smelled of coffee and woodsmoke. I fell asleep with a cool London breeze creeping through the windows, repressing anxieties and letting myself think of Edinburgh's gothic architecture and blossoming friendships before dreaming of poorly lit car parks.


End file.
